


Quarried Depths

by ForFutureReference



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, But neither boy is good at showing that baggage to each other so assumptions are made, Canon Compliant, Character Death, Classism, Dex is not a happy kid but there is hope for him, Did I mention anxiety and misunderstandings?, Gen, He's also a bit clueless but is willing to learn, Homophobia, M/M, Misunderstandings, Nursey has his own baggage, Pre-Relationship, Privilege, Racism, They are such idiots... but they are good idiots., oh so many misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-19
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-25 20:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16667836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ForFutureReference/pseuds/ForFutureReference
Summary: Despite what many may think, William Poindexter was not born with a mountain of chips on his shoulder. His experiences helped to shape an outlook. An outlook that brings him into conflict with Derek Nurse: the guy whom he’s supposed to sync with on the ice. Ultimately, if he’s to last in Samwell and forge peace with Nursey, Dex needs to reconcile his past-driven views with the reality of the present.





	1. Prologue

*****Nursey*****

**~~~ Fall 2014 ~~~**

“Yo, is that even legal?”

My question causes Dex to stop coughing and snap his head in my direction.

The wide eyes alone are comedic. The lit cigarette that hangs from his mouth is the cherry on top of the comedy sundae.

I don’t care what William Poindexter does. He's made it patently clear that he doesn't care for me, so there's no reason I can't reciprocate. If he wants to fill his lungs with carcinogens, all the power to him. 

The whole spectacle is just startling to see, especially considering how uptight he is. Come to think about it, I've never seen him smoke before — no matter the type of leaf, judging by the way he reacted to Shitty's offer — and it's not like this is the first time I've stumbled across him unintentionally.

Again, it's not that I care. I'm just curious.

Whatever the case, the manner in which Dex’s shock gives way to a hard glare is enough to convince me to take a couple steps back.

I’m not scared of him, but really don't feel like getting into another fight.

However, instead of confronting me, Dex actually flees. He bolts off to disappear into the darkness of the night.

 


	2. Assumptions

***** Dex *****

**~~~ Winter 2014 ~~~**

“There you are!”

Chowder’s voice echoes in the station's waiting room and makes me whip around to see him trotting in my direction. “Hey.”

“You practically disappeared after the tour ended. Lardo told me that you were here.”

“Don’t want to miss my train,” I grunt.

“Well, I was hoping that you could join us. I mean not right now, because Mom and Dad are at an alumni function. But afterwards, we’re going to have dinner at the steakhouse down the road. Nursey’s already coming along, so maybe you two can do some d-man bonding. That would ‘swawesome. The three of us together could be a defensive frog trio!” Chowder exclaims before taking a breath. “Anyways, you’re still invited to come. When we’re done, and if you have to go up to Boston, we can give you a lift.”

That actually sounds tempting. I mean, really tempting. I’m not exactly enthused about the idea of spending time with the Nursey guy. It’s not just because he went to Andover and, unlike Chowder, actually radiates that preppiness. Rather it’s the suspicious manner in which he was looking at me ever since we got those gift bags.

I’ll admit that the gifts were a surprise. Didn’t expect such hospitality, especially with the work Eric must have put in arranging everything; including marking the bags with our numbers and actually figuring out shirt sizes. Not to mention the homemade pie, which was as good as from any high-end Bar Harbor bakery. With someone like Jack Zimmermann running the ship, I thought that he wouldn’t have time for frivolities. And while I knew about Samwell’s reputation, it still surprised me that the team had no problem accepting someone who indulges in effeminate stuff.

Though when I tried voicing that, something felt… off about my question. Immediately after, Chowder burst in and celebrated his enrollment, which distracted everyone and allowed us to move on without fuss. But I felt eyes on me the whole time afterwards.

That said, even if Nursey's going to be there, I think I’d enjoy the company of the Chows. And since I’m just paying by cash on-train, I don't have to get on this one.

Unfortunately, dinner here is still not an option.

“Sorry,” I say with a wince. “That does sound great, and my train to Maine isn’t until tomorrow. But I already have dinner plans with my hosts in Boston, and I don’t want to bail on them.” In all honesty, if I called them now, they would probably tell me that it’s no big deal. But I already made a promise.

“Aw…” Chowder visibly deflates, and I feel like I’m curb-stomping a puppy. “But yeah, that would be a dick move if you change things last-minute. So nothing to be sorry about!” he pipes while plopping down on the bench.

“Wait, what are you doing?”

“Is your train coming soon?”

I look over at the station’s clock. “Little over half-an-hour away.”

“Great! Since I’m not doing anything else, I was thinking we could hang out.” He pats the spot right next to him before startling and hastily adding, “I mean if you want to of course.”

“Sure, I don't mind.” I settle down in the suggested spot.

And to be honest, it feels good to have the company. Even if a lot of the conversation is one-sided. The discussion first starts about the the tour itself and inevitably leads to him talking about how his parents met here and had him right while they were still in grad school. Next thing I know, Chowder has his phone out and is showing me a picture of his family.

“That’s Mom and Dad and me and my little sister Ellie.”

“You guys look great.” They really do. Mr. and Mrs. Chow stand at the doorway of an extremely ornate and colorful house. At their feet, and seated on the front steps of that house, Chowder hugs a preteen girl on the front steps.

Back here, Chowder beams at my compliment. “Thanks!”

“Also, that’s a really nice Painted Lady.” I gesture towards the turrets and windows. “Queen Anne Revival?”

He perks up. “Oh, you know about them?”

I shrug and try to play it cool. “Passing interest about architecture.”

“‘Cool cool! And I love that house! Mom and Dad got it as their wedding present when they came back from Samwell.” _Holy fucking shit._ “We actually just renovated it last year.”

Well that explains the disturbing amount of teal accenting the exterior.

Chowder proceeds to swipe through other pictures of him and his family having fun at home, at hockey games, and at vacations in far-flung places.

He also shows me a much more formal set of group photos where his grandparents, on both sides of the family, sit straight-backed and dressed in fine silk as their children and grandkids stand in the background.

“What about you?”

Chowder’s question catches me off-guard. “What about me?”

“Do you have any pictures of your family?” Something must show on my face, as he quickly adds, “I mean, if you don’t want to share, it’s alright. I just—”

“No no, it’s fine. Just surprised is all.”

I bring my wallet out and pull out a picture. Pointing to the figure to the left, I say, “That jackass over there is Daniel, my brother.” I shift my aim to the right. “That’s Ceel. Our families have grown up together for a couple generations, so he might as well be a cousin.” And he’s going to be Danny’s brother-in-law as soon as they EAS.

“Are they helicopter pilots?” Chowder points at the Blackhawk that the smug grinning duo are leaning up against.

“Yeah.” I allow a small smile to grow. “I’m pretty sure that they’re due to be approved for an Apache soon.”

“‘Swawesome! How about your parents?”

I can’t help but hesitate a bit at that question. But since Chowder already told me so much about himself, it’d be a dick move on my part to balk.

So I take a deep breath and pull out the family portrait that we did in front of our house late last year.

I’m wearing my letter jacket, with my hockey helmet tucked under one arm. Danny’s in his blues and has his arm thrown over my shoulders. In front of us, Ma and Pa sit in traditional formal clothes and a similar pose to Chowder’s grandparents. I swear that every time we get our picture taken, Pa deliberately tilts his head so that you can get a good look at the right side of his face, and Ma’s eyes hold the same gaze of defiance as if she expects anyone from her side of the family to drop in. Still, all of us are grinning from the stupid joke that Danny always makes to get me over how shit I am at smiling for a picture.

Chowder’s eyes do freeze on Pa’s face for a few seconds, which is expected and not something to mad at him for. That doesn’t mean I’m not grateful for him not commenting on it.

Still, I can tell that something is on his mind as he focuses on both pictures.

“Whatever you want to say,” I grunt, “you can say it.”

“Sorry,” he squeaks with a jump. “It’s just, if you don’t mind me saying, your brother has wicked cool-looking eyes.”

I can’t help but blink at that. “Anything else about them, other than that they ‘look cool’?”

Chowder relaxes and shrugs. “Nah. Not really. I mean, your eyes look cool in general,” he notes while gesturing at everyone in the picture and then my face. “I thought that’s something only found in fantasy. But having gold _and_ blue? It's like something you'd expect from someone with elemental superpowers.”

I snort. “His only superpower is being a pain in the ass.”

My flippant comment hides my surprise. Usually when people talk about the heterochromia iridium that occurs in my village, it inevitably leads to comments about dueling banjos. Hell, our regular eyes get those comments. Never mind that we don’t even play banjos Downeast. Granted, Danny’s popular enough that it's easy for him to laugh it off, and even my less popular cousins who have that phenotype find ways to deal with the jokes.

But that Chowder actually thinks it’s cool, without sarcasm or deceit in his tone or face… well… I'm not sure what do with that.

Chowder makes no notice of my surprise. Instead, he just gives a snort of his own. “Being a pain in the ass is the general superpower of siblings.”

“True,” I chuckle. “Probably won’t tell Danny that you think he has superpowers. He’ll probably try to jump off a cliff or play with munitions in an attempt to test that hypothesis.”

Chowder cracks up at that, and I allow myself to lean back and actually relax for once.

That is until he asks, “Who’s that?”

My eyes follow where he’s pointing to my still-open wallet. As my eyes fall on the picture, I feel my blood drain and chest constrict.

I quickly put my pictures back and snap the wallet shut. “Nobody.”

Saying that makes my chest constrict further in shame. But the alternative is telling more than I’m willing to share with others at this point… if ever.

Chowder looks taken aback a bit but, to my relief, doesn’t prod. Instead he asks, “I know that you said that you are still looking around, but what major are you going for?”

**~~~ Summer 2012 ~~~**

“Computer science. Or maybe some kind of engineering.”

As I’m saying that, I ignore Simon’s roll of his eyes — I’m glad that Danny’s not here as well, otherwise there’d be two big brother pain-in-the-asses — and keep focus on his girlfriend.

Makeda nods at my answer, and I breath an internal sigh of relief that my answer is satisfactory.

That is until Simon fucking weighs in:

“That’s not what she asked, Billy, and you know it.”

His soft rebuke makes me snap my head to him.

_You fucking Judas._

Simon just leans back, and answers my glare with the small relaxed smile that has defined him for as long I can remember.

Unlike those at high school who’d practically swoon whenever he’d flash that smile, I’m unaffected and continue glaring at him for calling me out in front of Makeda… who looks utterly baffled by the silent exchange he and I are having over her innocent question.

Truth be told, I like her. There’s no denying that she’s probably rich, or at least richer than us. If the fact that she has her own room in Cambridge to stay at — one that Simon has spent the night in… regularly — isn’t evidence enough, the delicate gold-and-opal jewelry and elegant white sundress that accents and contrasts with her warm brown skin certainly is. But she’s kind without being condescending. I mean, the café that we’re at is nice — really nice — but not extravagant. Even though I have a sneaking suspicion that she has splurged on Simon for the past almost-half-a-year that they’ve apparently dated. Overall, I’m pretty sure she’s not dating out of pity. And she’s definitely smart. I mean, it’s expected if you’re at MIT, but still.

That doesn’t mean that I want my whole life’s desires revealed to her.

So I’m not going to indulge Simon’s bait. Instead, I’m going to focus on this fucking delicious Reuben.

Finally he gets the hint, plays with one of his unlit cigarettes — even if smoking was allowed here, he’s apparently hasn’t done so in almost half-a-year; he still likes to carry them around though — and changes the subject back to destination ideas for today: “We should go to North Church next. It’s such a fine example of Gothic—“

“Georgian,” I mutter.

“What’s that?”

“Even if the date it was built isn’t a giveaway, the accents should be. I don’t see any— … Fuck.”

Simon’s smile widens, and I can see the social trap he crafted snap shut around me. The sneaky bastard.

Makeda looks between us, and then I see her eyes widen and smile grow as well. _Fuck._

“Why didn’t you say you were interested in architecture?” she asks.

I try to pass it off. “It’s just a basic interest.”

Undeterred, Simon adds, “I’m pretty sure he wants to be the next Frank Gehry.”

“Oh please, Gehry is a self-absorbed hack!” I snap, and it’s impossible for me to stop the rest of my words from tumbling out: “Sure, the Guggenheim looks spectacular, and some of his stuff may even work well where it is. But most of his shit is just evidence showing how incapable he is of recognizing function even if it kicks him in the balls! Also is at least a bit of integration with the environment that hard to ask for?”

Honestly, it’s just halfway through my rant that I realize that I just fell another of Simon’s traps. And by that point, I also realize that hiding things has become an exercise in futility in the face of the pressures before me.

Both Simon and Makeda stare at me in silence.

Makeda is the first to break it with a raised eyebrow: “‘Basic interest’, hmm?”

I can feel the flush creep up. Before I can respond, Simon adds, “I mean, I’m pretty sure you can get him to goes bonkers over anything art or design-related. Even more than he goes bonkers over scientific and technological breakthroughs. You should see the books that he hoards. Or, for that matter, his sketchbooks and woodworking projects. Or the way he helped arrange our gar—”

“You’re blowing this out of proportion,” I groan through my hands.

Seriously, he’s blowing things out of proportion. Yes, I appreciate for the arts. I appreciate that beauty that the human mind and hand is capable of crafting. I appreciate how materials can be used to their fullest potential to convey an idea or message without a single word. I especially appreciate when centuries, if not millennia, of tradition and culture intersects with the drive to innovate to produce achievements that leave their mark long after their creators have passed.

That doesn’t mean I go “bonkers”.

Finally Simon drops his smile and fixes me with a level stare. “I know where we should go after this. We’re going to go to the Museum of Fine Arts, and I’m going to double-dog dare Billy to go through it without showing any enthusiasm.”

_That shouldn’t be too hard as long as I keep us in the—_

“And we are going to stay out of the contemporary art section.”

_… Shit._

Simon shifts his glance and smiles again to Makeda. “How does that sound?”

She pecks him on the nose. “That sounds pretty good. My membership means that we can all get in for free.”

I feel like I just got double-teamed.

“Anyways, despite all that,” Simon adds, “I’m pretty sure it’s buildings that really get his attention.”

Again, everything Simon says is true. Don't get me wrong. I love to read about new discoveries shining a different light on the world and beyond, and I'm always amazed by the ways engineers continue to push the envelope. And the various forms of art tend to catch my eye. That's not getting into the artisanship that my family has honed and improved upon from generation to generation. All that considered, there's just something about architecture and the way it combines functionality of the sciences and beauty of art.

But still…

“That doesn’t mean I’m planning on going into that field,” I shoot back.

“Why not?” Makeda asks. “Dispensing with that ‘do what you want and you’ll never have to work’ nonsense, it’s a fact that architects can make good money.”

“If they are recognized,” I counter. “I’m not going to take the gamble for something that doesn’t guarantee I get a good job… or a job period for that matter. If I do go into architecture and get recognized, great. But if not…

“How many students screwed themselves over into debt because they went in with lofty ideas? At least with computers, I’m safe.”

That shuts them up.

Makeda offers a shrug. “You're right. Computer science is a reliable field. Even if you don’t excel, it’s not too hard to find some kind of programming or IT job. Now… if you go into something basic, don’t expect spectacular returns for the dry work you put yourself through. But again, the salary is solid and there’s high demand.”

“Thank you.” Honestly, getting into something wonderful and lucrative would be great, but what matters is a nice solid stream of income that I can send back home.

“But… your brother's also right,” she states before leaning forward. “I never asked you what you what you think has the best job security.

“And before you say anything, I’m in engineering not just because of the money but because I legit enjoy it.”

_Dammit._

“So… let me ask you again:

“What do you _want_ to be?”

**~~~ Winter 2014 ~~~**

“Probably compsci.”

“Really? Same!” Chowder exclaims. “Bro, you definitely need to come here! We can be ice _and_ study buddies!”

Which, when he says it like that, does make coming here even more appealing, and I can feel the tension in my chest ease away.

As the scheduled arrival of my train draws near, Chowder accompanies me to the elevated platform and asks for my number so we can keep in contact.

There’s a slight problem though.

“Do you… can you not text me?” Dammit, I hate it when my voice gets tiny like this.

I also hate how shit my communication skills can be as Chowder’s shoulders slump and he begins to pocket his phone. “Oh, um, okay.”

“Wait, shit, I didn’t mean it like that,” I stammer. “Calling is fine, as long as it’s not too long. Just not text. Please don’t text.”

To my relief, that seems to satisfy Chowder, and his smile comes back in full force as he brings his phone back out.

Then he freezes, and I can see the gears beginning to turn. I can see his eyes zero in on my Nokia flip phone… and then shift to focus on the hands that clasp it — that focus creates an urge to fold my arms or shove my hands in my pockets, but somehow I manage to resist — before darting around and scrutinizing the rest of me with an intensity that I suspect is a fraction of what he exhibits on the ice. I don’t doubt that he’s also scrutinizing his memories of our first encounter earlier today.

While we were gathering in front of Faber that morning, I was hanging back and watching the group. They may have been milling, but I could tell that they were able find some sense of commonality that went beyond hockey. I felt like an intruder if I tried to approach any of them. More of an intruder than I already felt for being in Samwell’s stately campus.

Then Chowder suddenly spotted me and broke off from the crowd to make a beeline in my direction.

“Hi, I’m Chris! Chris Chow!” he piped while shooting his hand out and beaming at me with a braces-laden grin. “You can call me Chowder!”

“Will Poindexter.” I took his hand in a firm shake. “Uh, Dex is fine though. This is the hockey tour, right?”

“Yeah! What position are you?”

“Defense.”

“‘Swawesome!” _‘Swawes_ o _me?_ “Goalie here! Been goaltending since I got my first pads.”

He continued to ramble about how he was lucky that his school — one with a name that sounded suspiciously private and preppy — started a varsity hockey league with several other San Francisco schools when he became a freshman. Otherwise he would have had to look for a club.

“But it’s so cool that you’ll be defending me!”

“Well, that depends if I’m going to attend. I have University of Maine lined up…” Which is where I’d likely go if I get anything less than ninety percent coverage. The possible best-case scholarships at the state schools wouldn’t be as comprehensive as a best-case scenario at Samwell, but they’d have a higher probability of happening.

“Yeah, I get wanting to keep your options open,” he said absently with a tone of someone who wasn't going to even consider any place else.

“So…” I couldn’t help but stare at his hoodie and cap. “I… um… take it that you like the Sharks.”

I immediately regretted voicing my observation.

A torrent of excitable commentary about the San Jose Sharks slammed into me in a way that I never thought possible coming from a single person. Before long, he was bringing out his phone and showing me pictures he took from the last game.

Pictures taken from glass-side seating.

Glass-side seating right next to the Sharks’ team benches.

The only thing I could say to that was, “Nice seats.”

That set off more rambling about how his family prefers to view from their suite up in the concourse, while he prefers to be right up by the action. Also more pictures of him at other games and exclusive events hosted by the Sharks.

I didn’t ask how much his family sunk into getting all those perks, and to my honest relief he neither told me that nor did he downplay the significance of them. It was clear that he just wanted to share the fun, and I didn’t want to put a damper on his mood. So I just took a deep breath, nodded, and made the right non-committal sounds until Larissa came around to do roll call and beckon us into Faber.

Well, now I can see that the whole memory is coming back to Chowder as he concludes his analysis by widening his eyes and raising his eyebrows.

I brace myself for that initial shock to pass and for his friendliness to be replaced by one of two options: pity or contempt.

Neither happens.  

Instead there’s contrition.

Chowder chews his lip and fidgets with his phone. “That’s why you’re not sure about coming here,” he murmurs, looking utterly lost. I don’t know how to smooth this out. “So when I was showing you all the pictures…”

“Don’t,” I growl.

“Wha—”

“You have a good thing going. As long as you aren’t some fucknugget who’s a douche about it, you shouldn’t be sorry for where you are and where I am. It’s just how things are.”

Chowder’s no longer fidgeting, but now he eyes me skeptically. Still, he promises that he won’t text me, and we exchange our numbers. I also make sure to give him my landline number, on which we could talk as long as possible as long as it’s arranged beforehand.

As we finish setting up our contacts, he asks, “Do you have a facebook?”

“Of course.” I take his phone and type in my name in the search bar. Since the cat’s out of the bag, I add, “I’m poor, not Amish.”

Something about that remark breaks the film of tension that had fallen over us, and Chowder busts up giggling… which snowballs into full-fledged laughter. It doesn’t take long for me to join in even as my train begins to pull onto the platform.

“Seriously,” he says with an intense gaze that makes me instinctively stand at attention, “even if you’re not going to come here, please don’t be a stranger. Though it’d be so ‘swawesome if you’ll have my back out there on the blue line.”

The funny thing is, I want to, I really want to. Not just because of the kindness Chowder has shown me. Not just because of hockey in general. But because, despite the preptastic setting, Samwell is a beautiful spot that may give me opportunities that I never thought possible. Opportunities demonstrated by how someone like Eric Bittle can be a hockey player and open about who he is.

“I’m considering it.” I really am. Then I have an idea. “You’re staying in Boston overnight, right? When do you have to go back to San Francisco tomorrow?”

“Yeah, and our flight’s in the afternoon.” He frowns. “Why?”

“Well, my train leaves for Maine at around noon. So if you’re up early and don’t mind, maybe I can join you and your parents for breakfast?” I’m about to suggest dim sum — the venues in Chinatown aren’t just tasty, but also open early and relatively close to North Station — but hold my tongue as suggesting that might be a bit presumptuous.

I don’t even finish my sentence as Chowder’s frown turns to pure elation, and he practically hops up and down. “Oh! There’s this spot we can take you to that has great dim sum!”

 _Well there we go…_ “Dim sum it is. I’ll call you, or you can call me, to confirm.”

Chowder responds by near-tackling me in a hug.

As I pat his back, and ignore the buzz that shoots through me from his embrace and warmth that blossoms in my chest, I become more convinced that things could be pretty good if I come here.

Except for the Andover kid.

Oh well. If I don’t get that full ride, it’s not like he’ll be a concern of mine.  

The train rolls to a stop, and the doors slide open.

**~~~ Summer 2011 ~~~**

Simon steps through doors and into the atrium waiting room.

“So how was it?” I ask. The tests he just went through are the final stages to see if he can get accepted into this research program.

“See for yourself,” he grunts while handing me the paper.

I barely see the acceptance before I hurl myself into his arms. He clasps the back of my neck and presses our foreheads together. For the briefest of moments I allow myself to hope.

After we break apart, Simon turn to the girl at the counter — her name tag reading as “Makeda” — and asks, “Hey is there someplace where I can light up?” He holds up his cigarette for emphasis.

And there goes the moment. _Oh for fuck’s sake._

Makeda must see the expression on my face considering how she’s laughing. “Don’t worry, that won’t disqualify him,” she tells me before giving Simon directions. He heads to the patio with a thanks and shoots a wink in her direction.

To my surprise, she answers back with a smile.

Maybe standards are lower here. Whatever.

After Simon comes back, we finalize the details of his stay. Not only will the research and treatment be free, but room and board is provided alongside a small stipend. On top of that, he’ll be able to take free classes that give transferable university credit.

“All things considered, I got myself a good deal,” Simon remarks. “If I knew I could get paid to live and learn in Boston, I’d have gotten hit with a chronic incurable illness earlier.”

I don’t even dignify that with a glare.

One of the only conditions is that Simon has to wear a bracelet that records his vitals and has a locator chip in case something happens; though they note that if something happens to him outside of Boston, they can’t guarantee that a rescue team can makes it in time. Also in the hypothetical event of Simon’s death while the research is going on, the Asclepius Institute has the right to claim his body. However, he’s given the option of opting out of certain things or, alternatively, specifying what rights the Institute has to it.

He decides to let them do whatever. The only condition is that a lock of his hair be given to our family for funeral purposes… and that his junk should be covered if he gets put on display in the museum.

“First off, even if this isn’t going to work, that’s not going to happen because you’re not going to die,” I grumble. Honestly, I continue to be disturbed at how casual he is about this. “Secondly, you have no problem wearing uniforms that leave nothing to the imagination.”

“Distinctions, Billy,” he counters while reaching up to ruffle my hair. “They still covered me.”

Again, whatever.

After Simon signs off on the last bit of paperwork — with the his residence starting next week; so we have time to go back home and get everything in order — I follow him out of the Institute as he asks me to recap my freshman year.

**~~~ Fall 2014 ~~~**

When you’re a freshman, everyone wants to get you to join their own little group. Get us while we are young and impressionable.  

Granted, even if I hadn’t been dragged here by Chowder, it’s kind of hard to avoid that kind of attention anyways when all of the footpaths that crisscross Lake Quad are lined with tables representing all the various student-run organizations in the university. And even then, I admit that some of the clubs look like they’d be fun. Not sure if I’d join any of them with the attention focused on both school and hockey commands, but I doesn’t hurt to talk.

Of course, it’s not long before I lose track of Chowder in the crowd of students who are browsing the fair, hurrying to class, or being jackasses by chatting in the middle of the footpaths.

Feeling drained by the crowd and being satisfied that I’ve seen all the groups of interest, I get ready to head on back to my dorm.

“Hey, you in the red flannel.”

I turn toward the voice to come face-to-face with what I assume is an upperclassman situated at his table with some of his friends.

He shoots me a grin and flicks out a sticker for me to take. “You look like someone with a firm set of convictions and moral fiber.”

Out of instinct, I take and pocket the sticker. “Uh, thanks?” It’s only then that I notice the sign on the table:

SAMWELL REPUBLICANS

Truth be told, I’m slightly surprised that there’s even a Republican group in this university.

“Come on, man. Humility is great and all, but men with your bearing should recognize their potential for greatness. Knowing our potential is what allows us to seize our moment.”

Is this a political group or some bullshit motivational collective? “I… see.”

My non-reaction doesn’t faze him. “I hope you do. And there’s no better way to seize the moment than by going to the ballot box this November.” _Well, there it is._ “We’ve been helping students sign up to vote if they haven’t already.”

“I’m already registered.”

“Do you know who you’re going to vote for? I hope you’re aware that these midterms are just as crucial as the presidential elections.”

Somehow, I’m not even surprised that this jackass has the gall to ask me whom I’m going to vote for.

I take a good look at him: Boat shoes. Pastel chino shorts. Light button-up shirt with the top third set of buttons undone. Shaved-sides-and-long-groomed-top undercut. The whole getup accented with a wide toothy grin. A glance at his colleagues reveals that they are all the same.

How fucking preptastic.

I can’t help but be reminded about the fact that at least half of my teammates revel in that look. Hell, they even fondly give that haircut a name: the Samwell Chop. Still, they are my team, so what the ensemble represents to me doesn’t matter.

This is some douchebag trying to tempt me, and I will not extend the same exception to him.

But nothing productive comes out of making a fuss with someone I probably won’t interact with again. Especially these types.

So, instead of telling him to go fuck a duck, I just give him the answer that I know he’ll want. “I’m aware and plan on voting for Susan Collins.”

Which is actually true, but I leave out a small detail. While I am going to vote for Collins, and good chunk of my state and local votes will be going to GOP candidates despite the odds stacked against most… I’m not so sure about Poliquin. And I’d rather jump balls-first into a full lobsterpot before even thinking of checking off the ballot for that fat fuckstick LePage.  

“Ah, a Mainer. Excellent! I thought you were from up north. Beautiful state,” he notes while looking me up and down. “Ever thought of joining? Samwell Republicans prides itself as representing hard-working individuals. We could really use a guy like you.”  

No doubt so that their little club can parade me around as its own little pet working class boy to show that they aren’t just preps with silvers spoons crammed so far up their asses that they spit tarnish. Even if their working class pet probably is the one who cleans out the gutters of their summer houses. They want to show everyone that they are preps who _care_. Whatever the fuck that means.

“I’ll consider it.” _And after careful consideration, I’ve decided that there’s no way in hell I’m joining your yacht club._

He leans forward and lowers his voice without dropping that damn smile. “I hope you do. Between you and me, bros like us have to stick together in a place like this.” _You’re not my brother._ “You know how it is.” I don’t miss which organizations his eyes pointedly wander to.

If only he knew… “Yeah,” I grunt while trying to keep the bile from rising, or my blood pressure for that matter. As I leave, I shake his hand. It’s softer than a llama's placenta.  _And he has the gall to talk to me about hard work._

“I definitely know how it is.”

**~~~ Fall 2011 ~~~**

“Well _I_ don’t know how it is.”

Danny’s comment earns a roll of the eyes from me as I take another look at the article on my — okay, technically my high school’s — laptop.

Jack Zimmermann hasn’t even started his first season at Samwell University, and analysts are already picking apart his performance and questioning his motives. Fucking seagulls with nothing better to do. No wonder he had a breakdown those years ago.

Though it’s hard to express the technical aspects of my displeasure when the company I have consists of guys whose primary former sports were soccer, football, and wrestling. To them, I’m the one “obsessed with a crazy knife shoe sport”.

Still, that doesn’t mean I don’t love their company.

The nice thing about weekends is that they free up the schoolhouse so that I can access its internet and the Skype television. With that, I’m able to see Simon’s face while talking to him. And with Danny and Ceel on leave, I’m able to include them in on the conversation today.

Just a few months, and Simon’s already looking fuller and more alert, with color returned to his cheeks. I don’t know what exactly that lab’s been doing, but I’m allowing myself to hope.

Though I wish he wouldn’t smoke during our calls.

“By the way, how’s your unit been reacting about the repeal?” he asks while glancing at the Danny and Ceel.

Both of them shrug. “Really a non-issue.”

“Some guys celebrated…”

“Some guys complained…”

“But life goes on.”

If the repeal they are talking about is what I think it is, I allow an internal breath to release. History shows that if the military progresses on something, the nation as a whole isn’t far behind… even if it’s relative. If gay or bisexual troops can serve openly now, there is so much potential in how that can snowball for both rights and acceptance overall. Still, so I don’t look too excited, I add, “You wouldn’t think that judging by Uncle Owen’s rants.”  

That gets a bunch of groans from everyone.

“Way to lighten the mood, Billy,” Ceel grouses.

“Hey, he asked!” I counter.

“Well at least you were in school most of the week. You didn’t have to listen him go on… and on…”

“… and on,” Danny finishes.

“Well, I was at least there when he tried to get a sympathetic ear from our cousins.”

All three fix me with tired stares. “That really narrows it down.”

“The ones who were at Korengal.”

My clarification gets them all to suck in a collective intake of breath. “Shiiiit,” breathes Simon, and I nod in response.

During the debates leading up to the repeal last week, the cousins made it repeatedly clear — while keeping identities anonymous — that there were gay guys who fought alongside them and that it was a non-issue. They’ve also tended to react poorly to people bad-mouthing their old brothers-in-arms, especially with some of them in Arlington.   

“I think he’s been on the downlow since then,” I remark. “Relatively speaking.”

“Hasn’t stopped him from going on about how there’s a slippery slope,” remarks Ceel, “or how our soldiers have to be worried about being hit on in the barracks,”

“Bold of him to assume that any guy would be interested,” Simon mutters.

“Oh and of course how combat readiness would be affected,” adds Danny.

“Bold of that fobbit to talk about combat,” says Ceel.

“Though I don’t believe what you guys are saying,” Simon scoffs. Before any of us can object, he adds, “All that ranting, and not a single mention of ‘Cultural Marxism’?”

“Well _excuse us_ for not saying everything verbatim. Would have thought that’d be implied,” Danny says with a roll of his eyes.

“What the fuck does that word even mean?” I blurt out.

Simon answers me with a snort that sends up a cloud. “Pretty sure not even Uncle Owen knows what it means. Anyways, wouldn’t be surprised if he got oil-checked in the locker room and is still taking it personally.”

“Hey, it’s not gay if you yell ‘oil check!’”

Ceel’s crack sparks a set of grins between him and my brothers — I roll my eyes and go back to article browsing — before they take advantage of the prompt:

“It’s not gay if you say ‘no homo’.”

“It’s not gay if you call each other ‘bro’.”

“It’s not gay if you’re on top.”

“It’s not gay when you’re underway.”

“It’s not gay if you’re wearing boot bands.”

“It’s not gay if it’s for body heat.”

“It’s not gay if his ass is an eleven.”

My muttered comment slips out before I can stop it and stops the conversation dead in its tracks.

As the laughs fizzle out and eyes turn to me, I feel my mouth go dry and blood drain from my face. Despite that, I manage to snap, “What?”

If I play this up, the guys will just think it’s the usual me saying the wrong awkward thing. I just entered too late into the joke and tried too hard, that’s all. They won’t suspect a thing. They can’t suspect a thing.

I mean, if they know, I don't think they'll react poorly? Yeah, they supported the repeal of DADT and are hoping that the new same-sex initiative will get on the ballot next year, and they always would participate in the Gay Straight Diversity Alliance at school. Still, there’s a difference between being friends with a gay and having one in your fucking family, and I don’t feel like taking a gamble anytime soon.

So I’m not going to rock the boat. I don’t need to rock the boat. Just keep everything as is, and all will be good.

“Oh, wait, you’re still talking about Zimmermann, aren’t you.”

Danny’s comment breaks the tension, and Ceel jumps in: “If it’s Zimmermann, then that’s fair, and that ass is definitely an eleven out of ten. It’s terrifying.”

“Pretty sure it has its own gravitational field,” adds Simon.

“Hell, you can tell even when he wears his gear, which I never thought possible.”

“Yeah,” Danny chirps while nudging me, “you guys always look like marshmallows in armor.”

While I don’t say anything, I allow myself to laugh with them. While laughing, I hope against hope that they don’t see me unclenching my fists under the table.

Danny continues ribbing me: “I mean, I was about to say that rating guys’ asses _is_ pretty fucking gay.” _Haha… imagine that._ “Gayer than San Francisco in June.”

And just like that, the three of them start right back up again.

“Gayer than _P-town_ in June.”

“Gayer than Naval beach volleyball.”

“Gayer than the _Navy_.”

“Gayer than staying at the YMCA.”

“Plus gai que Paris.”

“Gayer than apparel for decking the halls.”

“Gayer than an old time with the Flintstones.”

_Gayer than me._

This time, as I look up the details on Samwell University, I manage to keep my internal statement internal.

**~~~ Fall 2014 ~~~**

“But _I’m_ not going to stay quiet.”

Derek Nurse is on another of his “check your privilege” kicks that he and Knight love to rant about. Sometimes it’s mutual commiseration between themselves or their lefty friends. Sometimes it’s one-sided, as demonstrated here with Nurse yammering the ears off a tired-looking Chowder. The whole time it’s as if going on about that somehow erases the little inconvenient truths about themselves.

Then again, tankies will spout and lap everything up that validates their worldview. Despite the fact that they’ll be some of the first on the firing line whenever their wondrous revolution comes.

I’ve been pretty good at tuning them out as I work. However, sometimes snippets do slip through.

“… like, chyeah, the hockey program at Andover was pretty dece. But many of my teammates, sans dudes like Shitty? ‘Hyper-privileged and whack’ barely even covers it.”

Looking in a mirror must really suck for him then.

“But the worst part is that just when you think you escape all that backasswards conservative nonsense by coming here to Samwell, you find yourself stuck with more of the same.”

_Wait, what._

Nurse’s words sink in, and I glance up to see that his eyes are fixed in my direction.

I’m not surprised that he imagines me as backwards. My community and I have already been considered backwards by some kids at high school. So maybe I am backwards according to his scale of judging. And I fucking own my conservatism.

What baffles me though is that he even thinks I’m more privileged than him.

I’m not the one lounging around leaf piles to spout poetry without a care in the world. I’m not the one going to an expensive Ivy-lite school just to take a dead-end degree. I’m not the son of a CEO whose corporation would probably be listed as Fortune 500 if not for the fact that it’s private.

The last part is something I’m still kicking myself for not figuring out sooner. I mean, in some respects, it’s an understandable oversight. The Nurses like to keep their private lives extremely secret, and both the neighborhood around them and the people they deal with ensure that it stays that way. All that’s known is the simple fact that they have two kids and a lovely brownstone — not just some New York townhouse called that regardless of build, but a legitimate brownstone clad in iron-rich sandstone — in Upper Manhattan. What’s not known is the name of those kids and how they look. And in all fairness, I respect that desire for discretion.  

Anyways, Nurse showing a picture of that brownstone to Chowder is what gave him away.

To the rest of the team, his parentage appears to be a non-story. Maybe it’s because they don’t know or care about Dr. Nurse and her achievements because she doesn’t fall under their scope of interests. Maybe it’s because superstars such as Bad Bob and Alicia Zimmermann kind of take the spotlight away from "less glamorous" sources of wealth like the Nurses, Chows, and slimeball Knights. Or maybe it’s simply the fact that they are swaddled in such a comfortable level of wealth that someone coming from affluence and power isn’t news. Besides Chowder’s glass-side Sharks games and casual coast-to-coast flights, there’s Holster’s horde of first-day Broadway ticket stubs and Ransom’s premium golf club set. Not to mention Bitty’s endless source of baking supplies and the simple fact that he had a private skate instructor for years when he was younger.

And the thing is, I don’t mind the fact in itself that they are richer than me. I honestly don’t. Their occasional lack of tact can be a bit grating and embarrassing, and I just don’t get the appeal of golf, but whatever. It’s just how the world is, and there’s no point in getting my testicles twisted in a knot and pissing everyone off over that.

What _is_ utter nonsense though is when, with everything they're given, some rich kids continue to bitch and moan as if nothing's ever good enough for them. I guess they're never happy unless they are unhappy.

Well if Nurse really thinks I’m backwards…

I pull the sticker out of my pocket and take a good long look at it. Just like the placard displayed at the club fair table, the sticker consists of a stylized elephant colored in Samwell Red and superimposed on the Well.

I have no plans to formally enroll to the GOP, despite the fact that I could probably be considered a nominal Republican. That may change when the primaries roll around in Twenty-sixteen, but even then I’ll only be beholden to that party for the minimum three months.

And if I'm not going to enroll with the Republican Party as a whole, I absolutely refuse to join the trust fund circle-jerk that’s the Samwell Republicans.

But if Nurse thinks he can generalize and ramble on about privilege when he’s no different from those charismatic Chop-wearing bigots, well…

I remove the backing to my sticker and, once I’m sure Nurse is looking my way again, slap it onto the back of my screen.

**~~~ Summer 2012 ~~~**

“Don’t you think you’re being a bit provocative?”

My whispered question remains unacknowledged by Simon, who continues smiling at a young couple. A boy and girl surrounded by a crowd of around a dozen sneering prep school boys.

And oh great, the preppies are surrounding us as well.

How did we get to this point?

When Simon got admitted to the program, he was pretty much confined to the Institute’s campus for most of last year. Since December, he was free to roam around Greater Boston. My folks and I visited him over Thanksgiving, Christmas, and spring break, and Danny visited him a couple times during leave. And now, after a year, he’s able to take extended trips out of Boston.

So Simon decided to celebrate by getting a single-day ticket, just for the two of us, to the New Dover Music Festival. Before the festival, I came down to spend time with him in Boston, during which I got to know Makeda; despite the way they ganged up on me at that first lunch, I still like her and think she's a good match. After a week in Boston, Simon and I went down to Woods Hole, where after visiting the Science Aquarium — despite us already going to New England Aquarium; Simon really wanted to meet the seals — we took a ferry to New Dover Island.

All in all, the festival was great. Okay the crowded masses almost caused me to have a minor freakout, a lot of the attendees were obnoxious, and some of the art installations were a bit… incomprehensible. But still, the music was excellent, the fireworks display was spectacular, and most important of all, Simon was having the time of his life and full of vitality.

As fireworks faded away, we made our way back to our campsite. Still filled with energy, we decided to take a stroll along the boardwalk that hugs the base of the seaside cliffs that give the island its name. Between the pale rockface that loomed over us to one side, the sea to the other side bringing in waves to crash beneath the wooden planks under our feet, and the star-filled sky up above, we felt content and at peace.

That is until we stumbled across the commotion.

In retrospect, it was probably not the smartest idea for us to walk an isolated path — one that explicitly had a “NO SURVEILLANCE: WALK AT YOUR OWN RISK” at the entrance — past midnight, but here we are.

It’s not yet the school year, but it’s obvious that all the preppies before us go to that fancy boarding school that this island’s known for; the other things being summer beaches, fancy houses, festivals, and a prohibitive cost of living. Even from here, they all reek of affluence — unlike Makeda, there's an air of superiority — and wine coolers.

The couple in the middle of the leering preps clearly didn’t fit. Judging by their clothes, they probably worked at the festival and were on their way back home before they got waylaid. And judging by the way they were glaring back at the preps, this was not their first confrontation — a confrontation that was laden with slurs before we interrupted — nor was it the worst. But it certainly looked like the preps are ready to escalate.

Simon took his cue by lighting his cigarette — I should have been pissed at him for falling off the wagon like that, but I had other concerns — and addressing the couple directly. “Hey, I’m afraid I’m lost. Do you think that you can show me the way back.”

“It’s a single trail,” one of the preppies stated. “It shouldn’t be hard to figure out.”

“Shouldn’t be hard to figure out that I wasn’t talking to you,” Simon shrugs with a puff of smoke, “yet here we are.”

Ayup, here we are.

The thing is, seeing what was happening, there’s no reason I could turn away in good conscience. So in light of that, I support Simon’s intent.

But does he have to fucking jab a stick into a hornets’ nest?

Despite the increasing hostility, Simon doesn’t drop his smile. He does lower his voice though: “Billy, if something happens, I want you to take them and run back to town as fast as possible. I got this and will be right behind you.”

“What—“

“I got this.”

**~~~ Fall 2014 ~~~**

This is a disaster.

This is a fucking disaster.

I don’t know what the coaches were thinking in pairing me with Nurse. Were they even thinking at all? Or was it that all the slots on the team taken and so they had no other choice than to go “We’ll just put these two frogs together and hope for the best”?

Well they should have prepared for the worst.

I should have seen it coming when he didn’t even pay attention during film reviews. He was just relaxing with that damn bland expression and telling me to “chill”, which… what the fuck does that even mean?

Nurse doesn’t give a shit about what we’ll have to face or how we should prepare for it. Instead, it’s like he thinks he can coast through this with no worries.

Then we got to the ice and all hell broke loose.

When you step onto the ice as a defenseman, you are there to support your goalie — with your own body, if necessary — and counter the opponent’s offense. Hard, if necessary.

If the puck comes into your play, you pass it to the most open forward as fast as possible. And if you have to be in the offensive zone, you still hold that blue line with your life. You aren’t there to score shots. You and your partner are there to, spoiler alert, defend your team. And for that to work, you and your partner are supposed to be on the same page.

That’s not how Nurse sees it. Instead, he pinches in so far into the offensive zone that he is parallel with the forwards. Hell, sometimes he decides to fucking push for the goal itself.

Then he gets angry and demand that I listen to him if the situation get out of his control, which it does whenever he goes off on his own. How the fucking hell am I supposed to listen when he’s fucking all the way on the other side of the rink, leaving me and Chowder fucking wide-open?

He’s not a forward. So why is he being a damn hotshot trying to score like one?

When I bark at him to stop making such aggressive plays, the jackwagon just tries to drown me out. Somehow I’m supposed to be the bad guy who is not backing him up.

I’m supposed to be the “burden”.

Anyways, you’d think that once we faced off against an actual opponent, he’d take things seriously for once. Right?

Wrong.

That early exhibition game against Princeton was an unmitigated clusterfuck. Because of our defense pairing being shit, there ended up being several giveaways that Chowder barely blocked. It was only through his skill and our forwards’ ability to score that we salvaged things.

But that wasn’t the most frustrating thing about that disaster of a game.

Surprise surprise, Nurse’s showboating gave the opposition an opening to intercept the puck and scramble to our side without any resistance. Princeton’s center rushed Chowder, and I sent that fucker airborne. And when his cocky attitude gave way to whiny whimpers — he was able to immediately get back up and continue skating; so it wasn’t like I steamrolled him — I made sure to say what I thought of the little bitch and his friends:

“Trustfund pussy.”

Nurse used that as a reason to chew my ass out. Which… what the hell?

He seriously can’t tell me that the word “pussy” wasn’t thrown around by his team in Andover.

Granted, on the ride back to our hotel, I looked things up… and was confronted with some uncomfortable answers. I had to be sure, so I approached Lardo after dinner and asked her. For some reason, she looked hesitant but still told me that it does have a sexist streak unless referring to cats. I didn’t ask her why she never says anything to Ransom and Holster, but I guess it’s their own dynamic.

In any case, Lardo also told me that she’s not going to get mad that I say “pussy” on the ice. But the fact that it is a pretty loaded word gave me pause. I didn’t want to be one of those people who’d say something awful and try to justify it as just a chirp, and I want Lardo to be comfortable with me. So I asked her to correct me if I make her uncomfortable in the future.

Still, I’m not going to credit Nurse for “showing me the light” or whatever the fuck mission he thinks he’s on.

Because while I was baffled by his rant, that’s not what has me infuriated. What pisses me off is the blatant hypocrisy.

Our teammates hoot the same thing towards the opposition — not to mention the myriad of insults about mothers — from the benches. “Pussy” and even “cunt” are tossed around in casual banter. And for that matter, our teammates consistently refer to potential dates and flings in ways such as “getting that pussy”, “puckbunny”, and other nicknames.

Is there any outrage from him about that? Nope.

I guess he thinks he can’t tell off the upperclassmen because they have seniority on the ice. So he goes for the low-hanging fruit.  

That’s assuming he actually believes what he’s saying and isn’t just looking for ways to make the poor backwoods kid look like trailer trash.

Well, I don't care that rich fucks like him think of me as a snake in their silver set.

They strike me, I’ll strike back.

**~~~ Spring 2011 ~~~**

The ref strikes the mat, and Simon leaps up with a holler. Those of us watching him from a hundred miles away do the same, and we allow ourselves to be taken by ecstasy.

First getting his fourth and final state championship. Then getting accepted and sponsored to go and win the New England Championship. Now he has just got gold at the National Championship.

Between that and his acceptance to the Naval Academy, it’s like there’s nothing that can stop him.

There’s nothing that should stop him.

In our celebration, we almost miss Simon collapse to the ground. We almost miss him lying pale and unresponsive on the mat as coaches, wrestlers, and spectators alike look on in horror. We almost miss the trainers rushing him off the tournament hall before the camera quickly cuts away.

We almost miss everything.

But we don’t. We catch all that in real time, and I feel my stomach getting ripped out of my body.

The wait is agonizing, and I react accordingly. That is, I end up curled up on the ground and into a useless trembling ball as various possible scenarios cycle through my brain.

I mange to recover in time for us to get the call.

Simon’s alright and lucid right now. He just had a blood sugar collapse for some reason. Whatever that reason, it is advised that he be looked at further.

A couple weeks later, we get the results.

Right after that, we see the cost for insulin.

Between that and the regular set of bills, I search for more jobs.


	3. Accidents

**~~~ Fall 2014 ~~~**

“Look at our Frog, being all productive.”

Yes, I’m working during during “team bonding” breakfast at the dining hall.  _It gets more done than stuffing your face with hard-boiled eggs, Holster._

My assignment’s not due immediately, but the more I can work on it now the less I’ll have to deal with it later. Also it will free me up tomorrow when Danny calls from Oman.

Most of the team doesn’t bother me for conversation anyways, I already ate my fill, and Chowder knows not to bug me during this.

Besides, I only have a couple lines to—

“Yo—”

I’m barely able to register that stupid voice before a cold cascade washes over my head. As it flows down my shirt and dribbles from my soaked hair, I taste sweetened milk and cornflakes.

The loud chatter that’s a hallmark of our team goes silent enough for me to catch the final clatter of silverware.

Holster is the first to send a booming laugh echoing across the hall. The rest of the team joins in.  

Part of me is surprised that Nurse isn’t joining them. “Dex, I—”

“Don’t.” I wipe away the barely-soggy cereal and milk from my face with one hand and use my other hand to hold up a finger in the direction of Nurse’s voice. “Just… don’t.”

Then Ransom blurts out a string of curses that put a halt to the laughter, followed by a horrified gasp from Chowder.  

It sends a jolt through my stomach and makes me hasten in cleaning the milk from my eyes. As my vision clears, the sight before me drains the blood from my face.

I’m frozen in place realizing that I wasn’t the only thing hit by the cereal.  _No. No. No._ I watch sugary milk flow between the keys of my laptop.  _This isn’t happening._

I don’t bother saving my work. I don’t even bother shutting my computer down. Instead, I ram my finger down on the power button until the laptop clicks off with a pitiful mewl.

Chowder shoves a pile of napkins in my direction. Other than a nod of thanks towards him, I keep my focus on wiping my computer dry. I ignore the hushed muttering from my teammates. I ignore the stares of strangers in the dining hall. I ignore inane drone of the defenseman standing right behind me.

If I don’t keep my focus, I’m not sure how I’m going to react.

“… out of proportion. He can just buy a new one.”

I stop wiping at the keyboard. Someone — Bitty, I think — sucks in a sharp intake of breath. Chowder tries to latch onto my shoulder; I shrug his hand off and turn to face Nurse. “What did you just say?”

Nurse actually has the nerve to raise his eyebrows at my question. “I’m just saying. I’m pretty sure the bookstore has them on sale.”

That this asshole can be so fucking obtuse sometimes amazes me. I try to respond to the stupidity of his suggestion — to the idea that I can just go and buy a computer even from the bookstore; believe me, I checked already — but my mouth refuses to work and heat radiates from my face.

_Get back to the task. Get back to the task._

“What?” Nurse shoots at Chowder, who’s trying to get him to back off. “I’m not the one acting like it’s the end of the world over a stupid laptop.”

**~~~Summer 2014~~~**

How can they be trivializing this?

“This… this is too much.”

The laptop in front of me looks by all accounts unremarkable. Next to it, the brand new Android is probably one of the lower-range smartphones.

I can’t help but think about how much they must have shelled out for all of this, but I know that just telling them to return the stuff isn’t going to work. So I try to rationalize: “Samwell has computer labs. There are even computer labs in our residential halls.”

Ma raises an eyebrow, “And you seriously think you’re going to be fine without a computer in your own room? Or when on the move?”

 _Shit._ “Okay, but I don’t need some fancy smartphone. The phone I had works perfectly.”

One of my cousins snorts, “How long do you think he’s going to say that once gets his apps set up?”

Ma brings out another smartphone. So does Pa. “Billy, we all got the plan.”

 _Shit!_ “But still… how much did it all cost?”

Nobody answers my question.

**~~~ Fall 2014 ~~~**

_Fuck this._ I shove myself upwards and turn so that I’m face-to-face with Nurse.

“No, you’re the one being the conceited prick.”

He raises an eyebrow. “I’m the one being conceited? That’s funny coming from you.”

“Of course it’s funny to you. Everything is funny to you!”

“That’s not—”

A harsh laugh bubbles up. “Wait, my mistake. Except when it’s _about_ you. Then it’s oh-so-fucking tragic, isn’t it.”

For once, Nurse doesn’t have a retort on his tongue. Instead, his eyes flatten and lips thin.

Even if he has something to say, I keep on going to block him from getting a word in. “Everything is just so. Hard. Even when the system bends over backwards to give you everything for nothing.” Or at least nothing that a few signatures can’t solve.

“And just what the hell do you mean by that?” he snarls.

“You’re supposed to be the _English major_. Figure it out,” I bite back. “Or is that too much work?”

“Fuck you!”

Normally, the vehemence in Nurse’s retort and balling of his fists would catch me off guard, but I don’t give a damn as I turn my attention back to my laptop. I don’t give a damn as he storms out. And I certainly don’t give a damn as the rest of the team stares at me in silence.

Seeing that my laptop is as wiped down as can be, I grab a couple more napkins and lay them across the keyboard before I close the computer and shove it into my backpack.

I don’t bother excusing myself when I take my leave. I know when I’ve overstayed my welcome.

When I exit the dining hall, I’m faced by the fact that Nurse hasn’t left completely. Instead he’s standing right by the path as if in wait, his prior visage of anger now rearranged back into a one of calm.

“I don’t have time for this,” I mutter while brushing past him.

He doesn’t get the hint but instead begins walking alongside me. “You know what I don’t understand: why are you even here?”

“Fuck off.”

Nurse is undeterred. “You’ve made it clear that this place and its people make you all kinds of uncomfortable. So why didn’t you stay back in bumfuck Maine where you wouldn’t have to suffer the presence of those like me?”

Several reasons swim in my mind, but... “I don’t owe you any answers.”

“Typical. You know what, I tried to apologize. I tried to be nice. You’re the one who can’t chill and accept simple facts of life.”  _For fuck’s sa_ — “Like how sometimes accidents happen.”

His statement seizes my muscles, freezes me into place, and makes any possible response turn to ashes in my mouth.

_Accidents happen._

Time slows to a crawl.

_Accidents happen._

As I slowly pivot on my heels, a small voice tries to reason with me. That Nurse wasn’t there. That he didn’t know. That he’s just saying a common phrase. A phrase made of two simple words that drowns out all reason in a roar:

**~~~ Summer 2012 ~~~**

“… accidents happen. I’m sure you’ll understand.”

“You can’t expect us to believe that.”

Ma’s raw voice is barely discernible through the fog as I sit between her and Pa, whose hand grips at my arm. It’s probably for his benefit as much as mine.

“Why not?” The lawyer’s voice is smooth and would normally be soothing in any other circumstance as he reclines across from us and next to the police chief. “That boardwalk has been proven to be very risky. We have tried to appeal to get it fixed, but you know how it is.”

~~~ … ~~~

“Come one, guys.” Simon takes relaxed even strides towards what I assume is the head prep: some smug asshole in a pink polo. “There’s no need to be hostile. The four of us can just go our way, and you go your way.”

Pink Polo laughs, followed by everyone else. “Or what, trailer trash?”

Simon doesn’t give that question a second’s thought before he shoves his cigarette into Pink Polo’s eye. As Pink Polo shrieks, Simon tackles him and then launches himself at the next preppy.

In those first few seconds, I stand gaping at the brawl. It’s one thing to watch him kick ass in a regulated wrestling match from school or a choreographed demonstration back home. It’s a whole other beast to see his skills utilized for actual defense.

This shouldn’t happen. It’s always been taught to us that things should never get to this point.

Yet they have.  

The urgency of that realization is what finally kicks me back to my senses and unfreezes my body. Fortunately, the thugs immediately around the couple are still frozen.

With that window, I bolt forward, latch on their wrists, and reverse direction. “Wegottagonow!”

The two have enough sense to start running even before the preps can focus their attention back.

But a delayed reaction is still a reaction. Right in our path are the two preps who got behind me and Simon at the start, and they look pissed.

I let go, hope that my new companions have enough sense to keep running, and angle my trajectory towards the prep closest to the cliff face, and hit him in a glancing body check. I ricochet off him to keep running, he gets sent straight into the rocky wall. The other prep charges, and I meet him with a shoulder check that sends him flying. 

~~~ … ~~~

“I’ve seen the result of a boat crashing against the rocks,” Pa growls. “Those bruises were not from rocks.”

~~~ … ~~~

I keep running until the town’s lights and other people come into view. People mean attention. Attention is safety. Safety is good.

As I catch my breath, I sigh with relief that the couple made it with me. So I guess Simon’s plan worked after all.

Except Simon’s not behind us.

“Are you alright? I can't communicate as well as my brother but—”

“It's okay. We can handle it from here.” The girl looks over my shoulder. “Go.”

I don’t check if they notice my nod in appreciation as I turn on my heels and sprint back to where we came from.  

The fight is still going on when I run back into view. As my eyes readjusts back to the, I can see several preps lay on the ground cradling injuries.

And right in the middle of them, Simon is a fucking force of nature.

Someone rushes him, and he just sidesteps, grabs the prep’s arm, and dislocates that arm with an audible pop before throwing the now-screaming prep at another assailant.

He’s not fighting to win; he’s fighting because they aren’t just going to let him walk away. Each time he tries to make a break for it, the circle around him shifts, and someone attacks. But like hell he’s going to make it easy for them. Sometimes he moves like water to grapple or flow around his attackers; a lot of times to redirects attacks like what just happened. Other times he locks in to both block and attack with a solid force behind swift blows.

Despite how skilled he is, numbers still mean a lot, and all it takes is one slip-up.

That fear screams through my mind as I sprint forward and tackle the prep right in front of me. Or that could just be me screaming.

I use the rest of that momentum to roll to the crouch right at the feet of Simon. The fearful look he gives me makes it clear that I’m not supposed to be here. Well too fucking bad.

I'm not sure if we can fight our way out of this, but damned if I'll let my brother fight it out alone. And damned if we'll make it easy for these silver-spooned assholes.

Despite making it as difficult as fucking possible for them, they still manage to corner us, with the boardwalk railing to our backs. 

"Hey, Billy?" Simon's question comes in pants. "You remember what to do if you fall overboard, right?"

"Yeah, what are you—" The realization of what he's planning hits me like a bad check. "No."

“I love you.”

“Wai—”

Then he shoves me right over the edge.

There are moments when time seems to slow to a crawl. Moments where I can take everything in while being completely powerless to the forces around me. Moments like this… as I careen backwards into the sea.

Simon watches me fall. He’s so busy watching me, he doesn’t notice the prep throw a rock right at him.

_No… Please m—_

The rock slams right into the back of his head. The last thing I see right before I hit the water is him collapsing to the ground.

Once I hit the water, it’s like someone presses play right back again. The warm seawater swallows me up, and I tumble in the undertow before regaining enough sense to follow the bubbles up to the surface.

Upon breaking the surface, instinct screams at me to swim away from shore. Away from rocks that the waves won’t hesitate in dashing me against. I ignore those screams and let the waves carry me back to the boardwalk.

With the cliff lights behind them, the preps look almost silhouetted as they crowd around Simon. Simon, who attempts to crawl towards the edge of the boardwalk.

The crowd parts slightly as Pink Polo casually strides forward. He clutches at his eye, but the look on his face is anything but pain. It looks utterly triumphant.

Now swimming, I hope against hope that they are satisfied now. One of us is beaten. The other fell overboard. Surely that has to be enough?

That hope brightens when Pink Polo clearly stops one of his pissed-off friends from getting his hands on Simon.

Then he walks right beside Simon before sending a swift kick right into his stomach.

“No!”

My cry goes up as Simon crumples to the side. It also gets Pink Polo’s attention, and he looks up right at me. Keeping that eye contact, he says something to his friends that makes them converge on Simon to stomp and kick at his body. They don’t aim for his face or legs; just his body. He tries to curl inwards, but the blows are relentless.

Reaching the boardwalk, I cling to a piling and throw all pride to the wind by pleading for them to stop. I'm too focused on that to even be surprised when Pink Polo does put a stop to the beating.

I realize by now that no reprieve is out of mercy.

Ragged moans come from Simon as the preps hoist him upright against the railing. Ignoring my screamed curses towards him, Pink Polo stands before Simon to pat him on the cheek.

Simon responds by chomping down on his hand.

The action, coupled with their leader’s howl of pain, must have surprised the rest of the preps as they immediately drop Simon. The instant in which he lands, Simon uses the last of his energy to roll towards the edge.

I immediately launch myself towards him as he falls into the water.

~~~ … ~~~

The lawyer’s voice goes cold. “Okay, listen. You choose not to believe this story? Fine. I have another story for you. One where several upstanding students were put into the hospital. One where some of them have their promising athletic careers put in jeopardy. All because they were attacked by two tourists from Maine. They reacted in self-defense. One of the tourists unfortunately lost his life. They are all very regretful.”

~~~ … ~~~

I ignore the strain on my arms as I use one to keep a firm grasp on Simon and another clinging to the seaweed-slicked piling. Each wave slams me against the piling, but I make sure it’s my body, not Simon’s, getting battered and grated on by the barnacle and mussel-encrusted surface. Each wave threatens to rip me away from my spot and Simon from my grasp. Each crushing force attempts to sweep us under the decking, where we could be held under, smashed upwards into the wooden boards and support beams, or simply dashed against the rocks.

I try to grasp onto the boardwalk and look up. Above me, Pink Polo leers down with a wide grin cutting across his face.

He lifts his foot to bring it down on my fingers.

~~~ … ~~~

“Bullshit.”

“Oh, and what evidence do you have to show me otherwise? What witnesses?”

~~~ … ~~~

Voices distract Pink Polo, allowing me to shift my hand as his foot slams down. He lets off a set of curses, grabs the rock that was used to hit Simon, and lobs it at my face.

I barely doge the rock, which splashes into the water, and before I know it, the preps flee, bringing their injured with them. In their place, a several men wielding tools run into view and jabbering at each other in Spanish. Leading them is the couple we helped escape.

The men help me and Simon out of the water. One of the men calls for help. They don’t give their names, and honestly I don’t think I’d remember if they did. They all ask if I’m okay.

I can’t answer them. I can’t say anything.

The only thing I can do is keep a hold of Simon, who’s breathing but barely responsive. So that’s what I do. I keep holding onto my brother’s limp body while pleading and praying for him hang on.

The paramedics have to pry me off him, but they let me stay at his side all the way to the hospital.

I stay at his side when I make the call to Ma and Pa.

I stay at his side when my parents arrive and gather around me.

I stay at his side until his vitals go haywire, and we are forced out of the room.

I’m not at his side when the doctor comes out to break the news, and the police come to fetch us.

~~~ … ~~~

Ma and Pa say nothing.

“I could try to appeal to your finances and tell you that even if you win this case, the costs for pursuing it would be astronomical. But I suspect you are the type of people who choose to go out in a blaze of glory if their honor is jeopardized.” The lawyer sighs. “So I’m going to appeal to something else. I bet that if we look under William’s nails, we’ll find the DNA of some of our students.”

“You lay a finger on him—”

“I’m trying to help you here. Because I assure you, the State of Massachusetts is going to be far less lenient. We are talking an assault and battery charge that could possibly go on William’s adult record. I wonder how he’ll fare in Westborough. I wonder which university or scholarship committee is going to accept him?”

My parents are stricken dumb.

“In the meantime, image what the papers will say about Simon. What will happen to his reputation?  What will be said about his home? Throwing one son under the bus won’t bring the other back. That’s why I’m giving you the chance to save what you have left.” The lawyer gives enough time for my parents to process.

A distant thought screams at me to wring his fucking neck. Clamp down until this asshole’s last moments consists of his smugness turns into terror. Then carry on the favor to every last one of those preps and ones who help them escape justice. Hell this whole rotten place needs to be taken down. Needs to burn. Burn it. Burn them all. _Burn. Burn! BUR_ —

A gentle squeeze from Pa puts the brakes on my thoughts, and I’m barely just able to glance through the haze at him. He looks way more tired than he should. Both my parents do. As if all it takes is for one more thing to happen to end it all.

Between that and the way the police chief is eyeing me with his hand out of sight, I let my thoughts collapse into dark clouds that drain all energy from me.

Through the clouds, I barely register the events that speed by: Ma and Pa capitulating to the terms; a recovery team from the Institute arriving and overriding the New Dover authorities in their claim for Simon’s body; Makeda, who accompanies the Institute’s team, clipping a lock out of Simon’s hair and giving it to my parents; my parents kissing Simon’s pale face one last time before the casket shuts; Makeda hugging me and saying something that I don't hear before the Institute departs; us recovering my and Simon’s belongings before heading to the docks under escort.

As we approach the floatplane that brought my folks here in the first place, Ma snarls at the lawyer, “We aren’t going to say anything, but do you really think the truth won't come out?”

The lawyer is unfazed. “Like I said…”

**~~~ Fall 2014 ~~~**

_Accidents happen._  

Facing Nurse, what I can see — past the red haze that has gotten thick enough to cloud my vision — is a trace of that trademark smirk still on his face. A lazy mocking smirk telling me that, while he may have not been there or even know what had happened, it doesn’t change the simple fact that he’s cut from the same cloth.

The dull thrumming roar in my skull almost makes me unable to hear my own whispered voice: “You’d love that, wouldn’t you.”

Nurse’s remaining smirk withers away to be replaced by an open gape. “What?”

I ignore his display of surprise to take slow even steps towards him. “You’d just love for there to be an accident.”

This time, he doesn’t respond. No witty retort or righteous anger. If anything, and as I close the distance until we’re barely a foot from each other, he looks scared.

Good.

“There are eight d-men on this team,” I breathe through clenched teeth. “Eight. Coaches could have paired me with any of them. Instead, I have to. Put. Up. With. You.” I punctuate the last few words by prodding a trembling finger into his chest.

I don’t give a damn if Nurse gets the message or not, but a distant tendril of satisfaction blossoms within me when he flinches back. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that something crumples behind those dollar-green eyes of his.

Not bothering to wait for a further response, I turn back and continue on my way.

Nurse doesn’t bother following.

I don’t go back to my dorm. In all honesty, I don’t know where I’m going. I just need to be somewhere without people. Without judgement.

As my feet carry me on my way, the haze of rage begins to ebb and the thrumming gradually quiets. With that ebbing, my brain plays catch up and clarity is restored. With that clarity, two things hit me.

The first is the fact that I had wandered out of campus and into Samwell Park. Not only that, but judging by my vantage point and surroundings, I went past the dam and past any defined trail. I really am in a spot where I won’t be bothered, even with the university visible across the Pond’s surface.

The second thing that hits me is the full weight of what just happened. The possibility that my computer will not survive this. The fact that this fight between me and Nurse was probably the worst that has happened between us. The fact that this blow-up happened in front of the team and much of the school.

That weight settles into my stomach and pulls my insides down with it.

_Did you really think you’d make it? He’s right. You don’t fit here. You don’t fit with them._

_Did you see their faces? They hate you. And why shouldn’t they? You never say the right thing. They were just being nice before. They were being generous. And now you’ve really blown it._

My skin pulls taut and, as it tightens, it constricts my chest and sends a familiar damn itch all over. Shedding my backpack does nothing to ease that.

_Now they are going to tell Hall and Murray. Now the coaches are going to kick you out. Then where are you going to be? Where’s your scholarship going to be? Gone. All that investment. All his investment for you. It’s all going to be gone. You’re going to lose a scholarship and a laptop. All within one semester._

_Just because you have to be Billy the Blunder._

Gasping for air and clawing at my arms, I finally collapse and curl in on myself to weather the storm.

_Because that’s what you’re good at. Weathering._

_It’s all you’re good at._

__

I don’t know how long I lay where I fall. Could be seconds. Could be minutes. Could be hours.

Whatever the case, the storm finally ebbs, and as my breaths slow and even out, I unfurl and lift myself off the forest floor.

All things considered, it was probably one of my worst attacks. I don’t even have to look at my stinging arms to know that I’m going to have to keep my sleeves down for the next few days or so. Easier will be not showing my hands so that nobody can see the little bloody crescents gouged into them.

Just to be sure, I sit on a rock that juts out over the water and go through some of the breathing exercises taught to me. It doesn’t banish completely the tight feeling in my chest, but little by little it loosens things up.

As things loosen up, I take stock of the setting: The clear sunny day with just the a slightest cool breeze. The extreme clarity of the water suggesting that turnover hasn’t happened yet despite the time of the year. The shore terminating in a rocky drop-off with no bottom beyond.

It dimly occurs to me that this spot most likely was a quarry once.

Feeling back in control and getting a good gauge on my surroundings, I get an idea.

I place my laptop in a shaded location where I can see it, strip down to my underwear, use my clothes to make a nest around the computer, inhale a deep breath, and take a leaping dive off the rock.

The briskness of the water is like a sledgehammer to my lungs. It’s a familiar pressure, however, and not unwelcome. As my momentum slows, I release just enough air to allow for a steady descent. The cloud of shimmering bubbles clears to reveal a sight before me. Shafts of dappled light from the noonday sun dance around the pale surroundings and occasionally illuminate the blurry forms of various fish gliding and hovering around in the distance. Unlike the majority of the Pond, which is shallow enough to walk through for a hundred feet without the water reaching your neck, here I’m rendered tiny by the cliff-like wall plunging down to indiscernible depths.

If anything, and despite the very real danger it can pose, the incomprehensible nature of the environment that dwarfs me is a source of comfort. It doesn’t judge. It doesn’t spurn. It doesn’t give a flying fuck where I come from and who I am. It just is and offers a familiar presence that supports and embraces even as the mild protests of my lungs signal for me to kick back up to the surface. That embrace relaxes me in full, and the breath I take upon breaking the surface reinvigorates my body.

I should do this more often.  

As I swim around the surface, the sound of crunching leaves and snapping twigs breaks me out of that state of calm, and it gives me cause to press close to the edge and reach for a small rock. That is, until the crunching is accompanied by the grumbling of a familiar voice and the flash of a white cap.

“Over here.” I punctuate my call by lobbing the rock into a leaf pile in front of me and pushing off the rocky wall so that I can be seen.

Ransom jumps straight up and lets off a high-pitched yelp — _city folk…_ — before he whips around, does a double-take, and finally focuses on me. After taking a few steadying breaths, he gingerly picks his way towards the edge of the rocky bank. I doubt those loafers, which probably cost as much as everything I had on half-an-hour ago, are made for going through anything rougher than cobblestones. “You’re fucking hard to find, you know that right?”

“Wasn’t planning on being found,” I counter. “How’d you get this far?”

“Left breakfast early, and I saw you stomping southbound along the Pond. Wasn’t too hard to follow your trail — if I had to ask some random witnesses that you passed — until the damn path withered away to nothing after I crossed the bridge by the waterfall,” he grumbles while looking around. “This really is the fucking Forbidden Forest.”

I can see how he may have that impression. The vegetation here’s likely secondary growth, but considering how well-established it is in general and how thick the trees are, it’s really old secondary growth. Perhaps old enough to be non-virgin primary growth. Don’t know the age of Samwell Pond, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s at least a century old. The quarry itself was probably abandoned long before it and the surrounding land was flooded when the dam was built.

“Anyways, took me a while, fuck you very much, but here you are.” He looks me up and down with raised eyebrows. “Didn’t expect this.”

I’m just glad that he didn’t find me while I was having the attack. Still, I scowl back. “What’s so strange? Students play in the Pond all the time, and last I checked the park has a ‘swim at your own risk’ rule.” Then I realize that the water’s clarity means that he can easily see my briefs as I keep afloat. “Also what I have on has nothing on the stuff, or lack thereof, idiots have worn around town.”

Ransom mulls that over and shrugs with a chuckle in acknowledgement. “I’m more meaning that it’s the middle of fall.”

“It’s a nice day.” Possibly the last nice day in a while if the forecast’s correct. “Isn’t Toronto supposed to be around the same temperature?”

He snorts. “You picture me going out for a Halloween plunge in Lake Ontario?”

To my own surprise, I bark out a small laugh. “Guess not.”

Satisfied with my swim, I climb out, shake myself off, and hop back onto the sun-warmed rock to lie down to bask and dry off. I don’t miss that Ransom’s staring at my arms and hands, which I keep balled up. While he thankfully doesn’t say anything specific, he still asks, “Are you going to be alright?”

I give a shrug of my own. “I’ve had worse.” _Guess it’s already time to face the music._ “So when do I need to clear out my locker?”

“Don’t be dramatic, Dex,” Ransom huffs while kicking his shoes off, plopping down on the ground next to my rock so that we’re eye level, and swinging his feet over the edge. “So you two got in a little tiff. Okay, a major tiff. Still, you should have seen some of the tirades Jack meted out. Especially at Bitty. They got pretty epic.” For good measure, he pops those last few syllables and kicks at the water to send it upwards into a sparkling arc.

“Sure, but I bet they weren’t regular. Let’s face it: there’s no way Nurse and I get along, the other D-men are already paired up, and the team clearly likes him more. Hell, I know I’m good on the ice, but I’m certainly not spectacular like you or Holster. So if I were in charge and had to trim things down,  _I’d_ bin me first.”

Ransom widens his eyes at my admission, and even I’m a bit surprised how easy it is to say that.

Maybe I really don’t belong here.

“Fuck,” Ransom breathes as he squints at me, “you’re serious aren’t you.”

I just shrug at that. “Don’t want pity, if that’s what you think.” I really don’t. I wouldn’t mind if people here actually managed to see things from my perspective, but there’s no point in being broken up about them not understanding.

That doesn’t mean I’m going to be a doormat if shit’s thrown my way.

Minutes of silence pass between us. Silence that Ransom breaks first: “Two weeks.”

“What?”

“Give your partnership with Nursey two more weeks.” He holds up his fingers for emphasis. “If you both truly think this pairing is a disaster, then I’ll talk to Jack and the coaches to see if we can work something out.”

That’s more than cutting it close if they think something can be worked out before the season really starts getting into the swing of it. I squint up at him. “You really think two weeks will make a difference?”

Ransom shrugs. “It might. Better chance than if we don’t try anything. And seriously…”

“Yeah?”

“You two fit together better than you think.” Ransom doesn’t acknowledge my scoffing but instead holds his hand out. “So do we have a deal?”

“That assumes he wants to stay partners with me.” The image of Nurse flinching back from me plays on repeat, and for some reason my stomach clenches at it.

“I’ll talk to him.”

Like it will do any convincing. Whatever, it’s two more weeks. “Don’t get your hopes up,” I mutter as I shake the offered hand.

Deal settled, the two of us continue staring out at the Pond and university itself in silence once more.

And once more, Ransom disrupts it.

“Dex?”

To my surprise, Ransom’s voice now sounds stilted and hesitant. When I look at him, his face is a neutral mask except for a clear twitching tension within his jaw. Considering the air of confidence he always shows in his casual banter and poise, the unease that he’s radiating makes me sit up and turn towards him. “Yeah? What’s the matter?”

“What did you mean when you told Nursey that he’s ‘given everything’?”

That’s what he’s so conflicted over? “What do you think I meant? Just because Nurse has been swaddled in luxury doesn’t give him the right to lord it over me.” As I’m talking, it dawns on me why Ransom was so apprehensive. “Wait, I don’t have a problem about you and the rest of the team being rich. I don’t have a problem with  _him_ being rich. If I hated rich people, I wouldn’t—”

Ransom holds his hand up to stop my rambling. It doesn’t escape my attention the massive exhale that he releases. “It’s okay. It’s o—“ The words die as his brows pinch together. “Wait, no, it’s  _not_ okay.”

The backtrack puts me at a loss. “What are you talking about?”

Ransom stares at me, opening and closing his mouth as if he’s ready to say something but holding back. Ultimately he shakes his head and looks away. “Nope. Nah. Not doing this.”

 _What._ “What?”

“Even if I didn’t have a meeting later in the afternoon, I’m not putting myself through this. At least not right now.” I try to ask him to clarify, but he just continues: “Go to the library. Talk to someone willing to discuss with you. Except for Shitty; he’s smart and a great guy with great intentions, but…”

“No fucking kidding…” Nurse is obnoxious enough, but I don’t know what I’d do if Knight was a D-man I had to be paired with. I've been civil and deferential all this time, but I’m not going to go out of my way to be chummy with that lefty-than-thou blowhard.

Ransom must have heard my muttered statement, as he lets off another sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. “See, it’s shit like that why the team… nevermind.” He shakes his head. “Look, all I’ll say is that Nursey probably didn’t think you were yelling at him for being rich, and remembering some of the stuff he talked about may help you figure out what I mean. Also there’s a term that I recently learned that might be useful to you: ‘Intent versus Impact’. If you think you got it figured out and want to make sure, _then_ we can talk.”

“But you’re barely giving me anything to figure out!” It’s fucking ridiculous. Why should Nurse get any sympathy from me if I don’t even know what supposedly bothers him?

My protests are answered with a snort. “Like you’ve been forthcoming about yourself.”

Ransom’s disdainful scoff feels like a slap in the face, and I can’t help but reel back a bit.

He must notice my reaction, as his voice softens. “I don’t want you to think I’m unwilling to talk if there’s anything you need help with. But William?” Both the use of my first name and the plea in his voice makes me look up at him. Really look at him to see lines of worry etched into his face. “We’re a team. I’m not saying that you should bare your soul. But we can’t have your back if you shut us out.”

A stiff breeze makes me pull my knees up to my chest.

I don’t need anyone to have my back. I’ve already said what I’ve needed to say. No reason for anyone to go out of their way for me. I did alright before, and I’ll do alright now.

Still, I humor Ransom: “I’ll take that into consideration.”

His raised eyebrow makes it obvious that he doesn’t believe me, and he looks ready to call me out on it. Ultimately he just shakes his head before glancing at my clothing nest. “Anyways, I was just coming to check to see if your computer’s alright.”

At least that’s something straightforward I can talk about. “I need to wait for it to dry first. Then I’ll check if there are any issues.”

“Well, I hope there aren’t any…” That air of pensive awkward settles over him again.

This time, I huff, “If you have something to say, just say it.”

Ransom allows for another minute or so before speaking: “You can’t afford a replacement, can you.”

 _Is he just figuring that out?_ “Well technically, I have enough money to buy one…” Really don’t want to elaborate beyond that.

I don’t have to. Ransom wide-eyed stare and the sharp exhale tells me that he's read between the lines. I’m still baffled that he didn’t know, but I’m also beyond thankful that he’s not showering me with platitudes or falling over himself with guilt.

“If it’s truly busted, I’ll see if I can rally the guys to help you replace it.”

“I don’t need your charity,” I growl. I’m completely sincere when I say that I don’t mind that my teammates are rich. But like hell I’m going to let them pay their way into my good graces or buy themselves a pat on the back because they are oh-so-generous. And like hell I’ll let Nurse buy himself out of the mess he made.

Ransom sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose again. “Then don’t think of it like that. Think of it as a team expense to make sure that things run smoothly. After all, the last thing we need is for the loss of your computer to put your academics at risk, which would put your athletics at risk, which would disrupt team dynamics,” he notes while ticking off each stage of the scenario with his fingers and waving them in my face. “So it’s not just about you.”

Well, when he puts it like that, the last thing I need is to be a burden on the team.  And if they— _fuck dammit, he’s good._

I take a deep breath. “If, and only if, anything needs to be replaced, it will probably just need to be a part and not a full replacement.” Not to mention that I would need to figure out how to repay them.

Hopefully it won’t come to that. It better not come to that.

For once, Ransom is satisfied with my response and relaxes fully to pipe, “Sure thing! Just let us know.”

“Also… do you think you can refrain from mentioning this spot? I’m not saying to keep it top secret, and I know it’s public land anyways.” Hell, for all I know, people come here all the time, and I just caught a lucky break today. “But it’s nice to have a quiet place, just in case.” Not to mention that the last thing I want is for this patch of forest and pond to become sullied by a kegster crowd.

For one reason or another, understanding dawns behind Ransom’s eyes even though he keeps his tone light. “I don’t think you have to worry about crowds of people here.” He scowls at the surrounding vegetation with suspicion. “But how about this: I’ll keep it on the lowdown if you help guide me back to civilization. Deal?”

“You do know that I practically came here by accident, right?”

He shrugs. “Even if you did, I trust you to find a way out. Faster than me for sure.”

I blink. I mean, I’m not exactly surprised at the assertion that’d I would be better at navigating a forest than most of my teammates. Haven’t made it secret that I hunt, after all. But that one trusts me to lead him out catches me off guard.

Once I get my bearings straight, I murmur, “Deal.”

Ransom flashes one of his trademark smiles and holds his fist out, and his smile widens when I bump it.  

He has a really nice smile.  

**~~~ Spring 2011 ~~~**

That’s what the girls, and some guys, in school still say. Even though it’s now sickly and stripped of all energy.

Still, Simon always manages to work up a smile in public.

Overall he seems to be taking everything in stride, despite the fact that his fucking pancreas had to go and tear his future to shreds.

Right after he was diagnosed, Simon contacted Annapolis to decline their acceptance. He said his condition rendered him ineligible anyways, and that he wanted to have some semblance of agency, whatever the fuck that meant.

I can’t fault him for doing that. But it still bothers me how accepting he is of the cards he has been dealt. I’m not saying that he should turn into a blubbering mess. But something more than just rolling over and shrugging at the fact that he has to fucking ration his insulin.

Well, if he’s not going to be mad, I’m going to be mad for him.

So I search.

I search at new drugs, treatments, and research trials.

I search until I see the program offered by the Asclepius Institute in Boston. A program offering free participation to an experimental treatment. 

Maybe with this, we can get a reprieve.


	4. Apologies

**~~~ Fall 2014 ~~~**

I thought I'd get a reprieve from the nonsense.

Danny and Ceel both stare at me in silence from my phone. I fiddle with a cord of my dismantled laptop — to my relief, it looks like it shouldn’t require replacing; still going to let it air out more before testing — while staring back at my brother and his brother-in-law-to-be.

It’s been over a month since we were able to chat, and I don’t know when we’ll be able to talk again. With the offensive against Daesh continuing to ramp up, it’s become a matter of when, not if, their battalion’s sent to Iraq. Once that happens, who knows how reliable communication will be.

With that in mind, I was hoping to talk to them about my hockey and school. About their general experiences over there. About Danny’s informal apprenticeship in Sur and Ceel’s latest idea for a career path post-service.   

We did talk about all that. The dumbasses also made sure to scream birthday wishes to me the moment they popped up on the screen; they are days off the mark, but it’s close enough.

Before long though, Derek Nurse dominated the conversation.

Even when he’s not in the room, that smug jackass somehow finds the way to become the center of attention.  

He came up while I was talking about hockey, and things kind of snowballed from there. Before I knew it, I had detailed all our interactions from the first time we met until now. I had detailed our issues on the ice. I had detailed Nurse’s pity-party attitude and veiled barbs towards me. And I had detailed the last fight we had and Ransom’s cryptic statements afterwards.

Minutes after I've ranted myself ragged, my audience continues staring at me.

Finally, Danny smooshes his hands against his face.

“Billy, I love you, but you’re a fucking moron sometimes.”

“What.” Fucking hell, I know that we have our differences, but at least I expected my own brother to be in my corner.

Instead of answering me, Danny cracks his blue eye open and glances towards Ceel. “If you don’t want to explain it to him, I can do it instead.”

“Nah, I got it.” Ceel takes a few breaths before shifting his gaze back to me. “You remember when I got suspended for ten days as a freshman?”

I don’t know what that has to do with this, but I’ll bite. “When that racist fuck didn’t leave you alone? At least he got suspended as well.”

“Mmmhmm… did I ever tell you for how long he was suspended?”

“Well, it had to have been pretty harsh if they kicked you out for just saying ‘You’re so dead.’”

“One day.”

“WHAT?”

“Yep. One day. But hey, I said a ‘malicious threat’.”

“That’s bullshit!” It’s not like it’s uncommon for students to say that they’d kill each other within earshot of teachers. Hell, I’ve heard teachers say that.

To my continued bafflement, Ceel just shrugs. “Then there was that time at Walmart, and the alarm went off as I went through the door the same time as some suburban soccer mom. Guess who’s the one that got stopped and checked.”

Before I can respond to that, Danny jumps back in to pipe, “Don’t forget when that highway patrol officer outside Augusta asked if you spoke English.”

“Oh yeah! And that cashier.”

“And that school board administrator.”

“I’ve lost count of being asked where I’m from. Or them just making an assumption.”

“How many times have people thought you were Asian?”

Ceel barks out a laugh. “It’s actually pretty funny when some think I’m part of their own ethnicity.”

“Remember the time when we were in Muscat, and that Bangladeshi struck up a conversation with you? You didn’t correct him!”

“Nope! Nodded along and laughed when he did. I guess it worked, because he went on his merry way.”

The two of them fall over each other in hysterics, and even my own mouth twitches at the absurdity of that scenario.

Danny wipes his eyes and focuses them straight at mine. “Now, do you think all this would happen if he were white?”

His question is a targeted strike that destroys the smile tugging at my lips and leaves my mouth hanging open. The two watch me in silence, clearly waiting for a response. As I scour my memory… as I play various scenarios with actors switched around… as I try to recall if anything similar has happened to me… a simple answer wells its way up:

“No.”

Danny leans back. “There you go, Billy. That’s privilege.”

“Being privileged doesn’t always mean you're better off. At its core it simply means is some things are stacked in your favor.”

When they say it like that… it actually makes a bit of sense. A lot more sense than how I’ve heard it here in Samwell.

“I still remember when we were little and tagged along for a supply run in Ellsworth. As Pa was at the register, we wandered around because we were bored.” Danny’s voice is quiet. “The manager told Ceel to leave. He didn’t say anything to me.”

Even as the outrage of the whole thing grinds at me on his behalf, Ceel still sounds frustratingly matter-of-fact: “Never seen Uncle Davy so furious.”

“There’s a reason we never went back until it came under new management. Pa didn’t give a flying fuck that the alternative didn’t have as good a deal.”

“What I don’t get is how can you be so calm about that!” I feel the need to do more than yell at Ceel’s nonchalance, but yelling is all I have. “Why aren’t you upset?”

He fixes me with a hard stare. “Who said I’m not upset? Who said I’m not fucking pissed out of my skull?”

His glare and growled question snuffs out my anger.

“What do you think happens when brown kids like me show their anger, even when those around them are supposed to be progressive? Spoiler alert: we just talked about it!”

I feel myself shrinking back at not just Ceel’s unexpected harshness, but also the realization that buds from his rhetorical question. A realization backed by news reports.

A realization that connects back to me: “Is that why Nurse acts like he doesn't give a shit all the damn time?”

Ceel takes a deep breath and shrugs. “From what you say, that may partly just be him. But wouldn’t be surprised if you’re partly on the dot.”

“Like it’s one thing when we’re back home or even in Mount Desert,” Danny explains. “People, including cops, know us.”

"Helps that some of those cops are family."

“But outside our little sanctuary? Let’s just say social skills double as survival skills.”

“Why haven’t you told any of us back home?” I ask. “Besides Danny, that is?”

Ceel shrugs again. “It’s home. Just because I’m pretty sure almost everyone will be sympathetic doesn’t mean I want to risk rocking that boat.”

That, I’m not going to argue with.

“Ooh ooh!” Danny begins pawing at Ceel’s shoulder. “We forgot to mention the COA peeps.”

As Ceel shares his grin, I can’t help but groan and bounce my head off the surface of my desk.

Some of the students from the College of the Atlantic can be alright, especially those with a science focus. A lot of the international students are decent as well. And I’m not going to spurn those school excursions to our village, especially when they spend money. I just wish some would keep their mouths shut.

If I never hear the word “quaint” again, it’ll be too soon.

“We really don’t have to talk about them,” I mutter.

As if in challenge to my suggestion, Ceel raises the pitch of his voice by a couple notches: “‘OMG, you must tell me what your home is like.’”

“‘Um, you’re already here.’” Danny leans forward and waggles his eyebrows. “‘But I can give you a personal tour.’”

Ceel scowls. “I didn’t sound like that.”

“You totes sounded like that.”

“ _Anyways…_ ” He goes back to his impersonation: “‘Aw… you’re so cute. I mean where you're originally from. I’ve been meaning to take a backpacking trek. There’s, like, such deep spirituality there, and I'm hoping to find myself.’”

_Jesus Christ…_

Of course, Danny and Ceel aren’t finished with their impersonations. With each line they change their voices, though always spouted with the same obnoxious hipster air.

“‘I spent a summer in Costa Rica, and I feel so in tune with the rhythm of your culture.’”

“‘It's pronounced _Yucatan._ ’”

“‘Aw, you are so articulate!’”

“‘Can you teach me a few words? I'm going to Cancun for spring break.’”

“‘But seriously. Where are you from?’”

“‘This dish is good, but I’m thinking it could be a bit more authentic.’”

“‘How often did you see your father growing up?’”

As the two idiots continue rambling on, I’m pretty sure that it’s now a competition to see who will run out of cringeworthy lines first.

“‘It’s such a shame that society gave you no choice but to sign your life away.’ Wait.” Both Danny and Ceel freeze their impersonations and squint at each other. “Was that one directed to you or me?”

“I think it applied to both of us.”

“It definitely applies to both of us.”

“Different reasons behind the assumptions.”

“But still.”

Both of them shudder away their hipster roles.

“Anyways, from what you are telling us, Nurse is pretty clueless about how much class privilege he has over you.” As Danny says that, a look of understanding flashes over his face before it pinches into resignation and he clutches at his hair. “Billy… how much have you told him about our situation?”

“Nothing? It’s not like he—”

“Billy?”

“Now what?”

“You truly are the biggest fucking moron.”

“Well, if he’s perceptive as he claims, he should have figured it out!”

Both fix me with level tired stares. “Figure it out how? By looking at how you dress?”

My mouth opens and closes as I recall Jack and Knight's outfits alone.

“And before you say that it’s different, do you really think some city kid is going to look closely enough? Or even if they can tell you’re not some hipster, you think they’ll automatically figure out how well off you are?”

“As we were saying, Nurse has major class privilege, but that does not wash away the race privilege that you have. Or vice versa.”

“Helps that they manifest differently.”

“Helps immensely.”

“But honestly, when it comes to interactions, race privilege has an inherently stronger impact than class privilege.”

“Again, that doesn’t mean that anything that’s said to you should be disregarded because shit’s spewed at me.”

“It’s not a finite resource.”

“And turning it into a competition rarely leads to any winners. Still, there’s a strong difference in how things play out.”

“Ayup. With some minimal effort, I can make myself look and act all bourgie to blend in with the preps. Hell, there’s always the possibility of me getting rich. But Ceel can’t get a change of complexion and facial structure, can he. Doesn’t matter that his _folks_ are American born-and-raised.”

“Ayup. No amount of preppy clothing, cultivated accent, or money will change the fact that, to some, Nurse is just a black kid.”

“With all the stereotypes and expectations attached.”

I think about the things I've heard asshole preps say and, with a squeeze on my stomach, suspect that Nurse’s time at Andover may have not always been rosy.

“I get what you’re saying, but why does he have to take everything out on me though? Why doesn’t he go after our other teammates?”

My question gets a shrug from Danny. “Maybe he _is_ stereotyping.”

“Also you two  _are_ paired together,” Ceel suggests with a shrug of his own. “Familiarity breeding contempt and all that jazz.”

"But _…_ Have you ever considered that you might be projecting a bit?"

The hesitation to Danny's question makes the back of my neck prickle, and I growl, "What's that supposed to mean?"

Both of them fidget. "I mean _…_ Yeah he's rich. But not every prep is New Do—"

"I know that!" I snap, cutting them off. I don't need the conversation to go down that path.

Danny holds his hands up and keeps his voice soft. “All I'm saying is, with how much he bothers you, have you ever considered that you bother him?"

"Think about things you’ve said," Ceel adds. "I mean, _really_ think about them. ”

With a sigh, I do as requested. I think back on everything I've said at and around him. As I do so, I still don’t get what’s wrong. All I’ve been doing is saying things as they are.

_Saying it as it is._

_Oh no._

The more I recollect, the wider the pit in my gut grows. As my blood drains, a voice rattles in my head. A voice — often loud — constantly spewing passive-aggressive comments. Comments about how working-class men are shafted in favor of minorities, females, and… “deviants”. That they’re given everything due to affirmative action and other examples of “Cultural Marxism”.

“I sound like Uncle Owen.”

Both Danny and Ceel wince. “Ah, you’re not _that_ bad.”

But even as they try to downplay things, I can’t deny the facts before me. Facts that are why Nurse hates me. Why Ransom was awkward about asking me to clarify my statements. As those facts become all the more impossible to refute, my breathing hastens, ribs constrict, and skin prickles.

My reaction to the facts doesn’t go unnoticed by Danny or Ceel.

“Oh fuck.”

“Shit! Billy, look up at us. Focus on us.”

I do as I’m told, center myself on both their eyes and breathing, and keep my hands firmly gripping the phone. This time, the wave passes over without completely buckling me. As it recedes, I barely feel drained of energy. If anything, that lack of exhaustion just makes the cold gnawing sensation of shame all the stronger. Shame that I had to get an attack now. Shame that my spiraling forced Danny and Ceel to do damage control in front of their comrades, who probably think I did this just to get sympathy. But most of all, shame at the image I created for myself before Nurse and the team.

My shame gathers into an epiphany: “I need to talk to Nurse.”

“Not gonna lie, that’d be a good idea.”

“I need to let him know that I didn’t mean it that way!”

Danny makes a buzzer sound, and Ceel groans, “Oooh, wrong answer.”

Their instant rebuttal takes me aback, especially considering how concerned they were about my wellbeing earlier. “Excuse me?”

“If you start saying, ‘Oh that’s not what I meant’, even when that’s really not what you meant, you’re not solving anything. All you’re doing is covering your ass.”

“Especially since that’s what actual bigots spout to deflect,” Danny adds. “I bet you’ll just piss him off further.”

As they say that, Ransom’s advice surges back to the fore of my memory. “Is that what they mean by ‘intent vs impact’?”

My question catches both Danny and Ceel flat-footed, and they gape at me. Danny’s the first to grin though. “Look at that. Samwell is infecting our precious Billy.”

Ceel mirrors his grin. “Watch out. Next thing you know, he’ll start _baking_.” They haven’t stopped chirping me about that ever since I mentioned my school tour?

“Well, now you’re just talking apocalyptic scenarios. I thought your ancestors were supposed to have that down pat.”

“They were a jungle peoples,” Ceel counters while holding his hand solemnly to his chest. “They didn’t account for lobsters and emotionally-constipated gingers.”

“Wait, aren’t there lobsters down there?”

“But yes, Billy,” Ceel bellows, rerailing the conversation. “That’s what they mean. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t intend to sound racist.”

“What matters is that you sounded racist, and that had an impact on him.”

“Hell, there have been times when Danny had moments.”

“So many moments.”

“All the moments.”

“Such moments. Wow.”

There’s a reason Ransom and Holster don’t phase me.

“The point is that when he had those moments of fumbling, he learned from them and vowed to improve. He didn’t make excuses.”

“Never make excuses. We aren’t saying that you should clad yourself in sackcloth.”

“Fuck no. White Guilt—”

“Trademark.”

“—is just as tiring as casual racism.”

“But just know where you went wrong. Learn from your mistake. And if you still need to get your point across, repackage your argument, and try again.”

“Now we can’t help you about your ice issues.”

“Or him being a hipster poet.”

“But I have a feeling that Nurse may be more willing to listen than you think.”

“I mean, there is always the chance that he _is_ a classist prick.”

“Well, yeah. And fuck him if so.”

“But you can’t make that judgement if he's in the dark.”

“We’re not saying that you should lay everything on the table.”

“Definitely not everything.”

“Unless you want to.”

“It’s up to you.”

“But if you want him to see things from your perspective, let him know at least enough to get a good idea. Who knows, that may help your hockey?”

“Or not. We’re not versed in the arcane technical intricacies of your knife-shoe sports. But I think it won’t hurt the communication part.”

“Still, you can’t expect him to listen in the first place if you don’t listen yourself. Or acknowledge things you've said for that matter.”

“If you truly want to be the better man…”

“Then act like it.”

**~~~ Winter 2011 ~~~**

“You _do_ know that you don’t have to act all big in front of us, right?”

Simon crouches down next to me. He doesn’t even bother looking down at my arms as he hands me a bottle of calamine.

I shrug. "I just don't want everyone to make a big deal." Yes, even though I may have collapsed in a shaking ball right in front of them.

All of us who are high school age stay in Bar Harbor over the weekdays as it's easier than the boat commute. It especially makes it easier for those of us who have after-school practice, which I had just rushed from. Well right now, my cousins crowd the window with faces pinched in concern; Simon waves them off.

“If I asked you what happened, will you tell me?”

“Just had a little disagreement with a teammate.”

That ended up with him threatening to out me to everyone. All because I read the signs incorrectly at first and then backed out when it became clear that he wanted to take things past a possible kiss and date.

Simon raises his eyebrows. “You want me to rough up this teammate for you?”

That gets a short burst of laughter from me. I’m close to surpassing Simon in height — hell, most of my teammates are definitely taller and bigger than him — and he’s still ready to kick someone’s ass for me. “Nah, the situation resolved itself.”

Because if he outs me, he risks outing himself. Knowing that helps cool my nerves as I recover from my little episode. Though it also confirms that it’s best to just stay single and out of the whole mess. Besides, this last incident is further proof that I don’t seem to feel the same kind of attraction as everyone else; so there’s no loss beyond the occasional crush.  

Simon doesn’t say anything but his continued-to-be-raised eyebrows let me know that he’s not satisfied with my explanation. Still, he shrugs, and throws an arm around my shoulders to squeeze. He keeps his arm there as we both get back up and begin walking towards the door, and I can’t help but lean into him.

“Just know, Billy,” he murmurs while pressing his lips against my temple, “you're not alone.”

**~~~ Fall 2014 ~~~**

Sometimes I wish I didn't go at this alone.

Despite how much Bitty may moan about us being “gripped in the frozen thrall of the Northern Wastes”, the weather this afternoon is nice. The temperature has dropped a bit from yesterday, but there’s still sunshine coupled with a northerly breeze that makes sure you’re neither too cold nor too hot. Also since many students seem to have the same idea as Bitty and are staying inside, the green spaces on the campus — the large stately trees that line the path are still filled with richly-colored leaves — are nice and deserted.

It’s a lovely day, and yet I’m unable to enjoy it due to the pressure that increases upon me. It’s not like my bad attacks where I’m bowled over by a freight train; instead it’s as if each step drops a heavy woolen blanket that makes my movements sluggish and breathing labored. Each blanket is a reminder that I’m probably making a horrible mistake. Well, more so than the horrible mistakes I’ve made recently.

After my talk with Danny and Ceel, I resolved that I must confront the latest mistake asap. I wasted no time finding Ransom and running past him where I thought I went wrong and how I wanted to fix it. I didn’t miss the way his eyes widened in surprise. When he let out a major sigh of relief, gave me a warm clap on my back, and offered me some pointers, I felt something unwind within me as well.

Which just means that things have wound back up as I pick my way around campus.

After the certain point, the winding gets to the point that I have to veer off the path to lean up against a thick oak tree.

_Maybe this isn’t such a great idea. But it needs to be done as soon as possible if there’s to be any hope of salvaging at least our performance on the ice; that’s not getting into how we are off it._

_Though what if he doesn’t want to talk?_

_That’s fine, I’ll leave it up to him to pick up later. But even if he sets it for this week, a later time may not be convenient for either of us._

_Well, we’ll just make it work, my convenience be damned._

_That determination is great and all, but what if it make things worse by your approach?_

_… I…_

_Your last words made it clear that you didn’t want anything to do with him, and now you want to barge right back into his life?_

_… I’ll figure something out._

_Well you better figure things out fast if you don’t want to fuck this up, Billy._

I’m not given time to figure things out.

I’m barely given time to catch my breath as I lean where I am.

Because once I get things back under control and move around the tree, I almost walk smack right into Nurse.

I slam on my brakes in time. Nurse tries to, but instead trips and windmills forward. My reflexes kick in, and my hands shoot up to grip his shoulders and stop his forward momentum.

For a moment, we are frozen in place with barely an inch between our foreheads… and what probably would have been a dual concussion event. Within that moment we lock eyes and realize just how close we are to each other.

“Uh…”

I don’t know who moves first or even how we move. All that matters is that we go from having near-zero personal space to a meter between us in a blink of an eye.

From there though, we don’t move anywhere. We just spend this time shifting in place and facing each other.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

Nurse kicks at a stubborn tuft of grass growing out of the cracked sidewalk. I smooth out my shirt and sleeves. A passerby stops, looks between us, and continues on while muttering uncharitable things about our team.

_How the hell were we pegged as hockey players? We’re only freshmen, and the full season hasn’t started yet. Samwell may be a small school, but it’s not that small. Is there something about our build and posture? Were we spotted at team breakfasts with assumptions made from there? Is there—Oh… right… both Nurse and I are wearing SMH hoodies right now._

_Nevermind._

Actually running into Nurse hasn’t abated the sense of unease that had been weighing me down. And to be honest, it’s not like I had high expectations. Except now, there is this additional static charge. Like still, muggy air before a storm, a finger resting on a trigger, or a static-charged hand reaching for a doorknob.

Something has got to give, and it’s pretty fucking obvious both of us are waiting for the other to make the first move.

Well, if nothing’s going to happen, it might as well be m—

“Yo, uh, can we talk?”

Or not.

 _I…_ “Um… that’s… what I was going to ask.”

For a brief moment, it’s as if the campus becomes muted and paused. Except for us. Nurse just blinks at me until he finally scratches the back of his head with a grunt: “Chill.”

As the moment passes and activity around us resumes, part of me is surprised that the same flare of irritation that usually accompanies that word doesn’t rush through me. The other part of me just lets out a laugh. It lets out mad giggle mocking the absurdity of all this. Of us both.

Through my own laughter, I’m vaguely aware of the way Nurse’s mouth twitches, and before long I can hear his soft chuckle.

His laugh just feeds into mine and vice versa. Leaving us both two teary idiots doubled over, gasping, and leaning up against each other in hysterics.

We really are a mess, aren’t we.

As I wipe my eyes dry, I realize that both of us are on the ground. The absurd scene that we're probably making sends another wave of hysterics through me, in turn triggering his as well.

So glad that the team isn’t here to see this.

The thought of the team is one of the elements, alongside me just running out of energy, is what finally sobers and reminds me of why I’ve been seeking Nurse in the first place. Judging by his expression, he looks like he’s having similar thoughts.

I decide to get ahead of them this time:

“I’m pretty sure there are things I need to apologize for.”

“Chyeah…” Nurse breathes. “But it’s not like there aren’t things I’m sorry for either.”

That make me snap my head up and get a look at him. Get a really good look at him.

“What made you think that?” I ask.

He snorts while fiddling with a leaf, “Would you believe that I really prefer to be a decent person?”

“Actually I would.”

My instantaneous response gets him to snap his gaze at me in turn. I just offer a shrug in response. Nurse may be utterly clueless and preachy, but it’s clear that he cares.

“For what it’s worth,” I say, “my brother and cousin let me know that I was being an idiot about things. And that it didn’t matter what I meant if you took it the way I now think you did.”

Nurse raises his eyebrows, but instead of following up on his obvious surprise, he offers up another chuckle. “Alright, my sis may have informed me that I had some blind spots, and she may have told me to check my assumptions.”

_Well then…_

“Sometimes siblings can be the best,” I mutter.

**~~~ Summer 2012 ~~~**

I’ll never tell my brothers that they are the best, as the last thing need is for their egos to get puffed.

But sometimes they can truly deliver.

We kind of blitzed through the Museum of Fine Arts in the past few hours, but every minute was worth it. I gave up trying to resist Simon’s dare within the first fifteen minutes we were there. I think it was at the Babylonian striding lion where I cracked. He just grinned and told me the satisfaction of seeing my enthusiasm was enough of a victory gift. The sap.

“Simon mentioned that you play hockey.”

Makeda’s comment pries my attention away from a stone pagoda.

“What?”

Makeda nods over towards Simon, who’s a few steps ahead of us. He must have heard her because he looks back and waves. She waves back while restating, “He said that you play hockey back in school.”

“Yeah. Defense.”

For some reason, that sets off a small laugh from her. It’s a soft pleasant sound, but it still breaks the silence of the Tenshin-en garden that we’re strolling through, and I quickly look around in the hope that we didn’t disturb anyone.

“Sorry about that,” she mutters with her hand to her mouth.

“What was that about?” I ask.

“It’s just that… I have a brother, you know. He’s close to the same age as you… and also a d-man.”

“… Huh.”

“Yeah, who’d have thought?” She gives me a wry smile. “He also loves the arts. Though literature and performance is more up his alley.”

_Huh…_

“How does he balance that with hockey?”

Makeda sighs, “I have a feeling that it’s a challenge. He doesn’t reveal everything about school, but call it intuition.”

I nod in sympathy. I don’t mention much about my interests around my teammates. I’ve heard enough locker room comments mocking guys in arts and home-ec that it’s probably smart to keep a low profile.

“Anyways, you should meet him sometime. I have a feeling that you two might hit it off, regardless of any personality differences.” She gives another small laugh. “Hell, it might be sooner than you think as I’m planning on introducing Simon to my family soon, and I wouldn’t mind if you came along.”

“Even as a third wheel?”

Another laugh. “I’m sure you’ll have company.”

_I think I’d like that._

“By the way, you can say it.” Makeda's voice cuts through the serenity.

“Huh?”

“I’m rich. You’re not.” There is neither guilt nor arrogance there. If anything, the matter-of-fact way she says that makes the fact hit even harder.

I let a minute or so of silence pass before asking, “How do you make it work?”

She exhales a big huff of air. “It’s not easy. I mean, Simon never makes me feel like I need to hold myself back to preserve his ego. In fact, he’s been nothing but encouraging,” she says with a smile before sighing. “But that doesn’t mean I haven’t had to bat down feelings of guilt. And there are still times when his pride’s frustrating.”

I nod at her point.

“Still, if anything, the challenge is part of what makes all the more sweet.”

Can’t disagree with that either. Still not sure I'd go for that kind of challenge, but I won't fault anyone for trying.

As we walk out of the garden and cross the street into the Fens, Simon fiddles with his cigarette and tosses an arm over my shoulders.

While I make token attempts to shrug him off me, I’m just happy that everything's working out.  

“You talking about your brother again?” he asks while bumping our foreheads and lightly tousling my hair. “Are you sure him meeting this idiot is a good idea?”

"Hey!"

Simon grins and bolts off deeper into the park, and I immediately chase after him. We weave and dodge past vegetation and people, and I can hear Makeda shouting and laughing at us. We're in a city park instead of the rocky shores of home, but it's like the clock has been turned back to before.

I wish it can stay that way. 

Finally Simon swerves to a clearing where I tackle him, and we grapple in the grass. It's not long though before he has me pinned and tapping out.

As we lie laughing and panting next to each other, Makeda stands over us with a mix of amusement and exasperation. Honestly surprised she's able to catch up so quickly in that dress.

“To answer your question," she huffs while wiping away the sweat, "shared interests and all that. Shared traits too.”

_Wait, what._

**~~~ Fall 2014 ~~~**

“Even when they are the worst,” Nurse adds.

_Oh if that’s not the fucking truth._

That sets off another bout of laughter. Still, his sister sounds pretty cool and I wouldn’t mind meeting her.

“But seriously,” I finally breathe, “we really do need to talk.”

Nurse glances around. “Here’s probably not the best locale.”

“Same.” The campus is calm right now, but for this conversation, I don't want to risk eavesdroppers. Hell, I don’t even expect our dorms to be secure.

“You got any place in mind?”

Nurse’s question takes me aback. Not the question in itself, but that he’s asking me for my suggestion.

Maybe everyone is right. Maybe things can work out.

I want it to work out.

I have no illusions that it will be easy or that, no matter how much we talk, there won't be conflict. But what is life without challenge?

I want this. “Do you mind a short hike through the woods?”

My question earns a shrug. “I can dig it.”

I look across the Pond and back at Nursey.

“I know a spot.”


	5. Epilogue

*****Nursey*****

**~~~ Fall 2016 ~~~**

It’s surreal being here at night.

When Dex asked me to meet him at the quarry drop-off on the evening of the first of November, for some reason I agreed without hesitation.

Three years ago, if he asked that, I'd probably have second thoughts. And not just because the treacherous path to this spot; even now, we had to meet at the bridge, with him guiding me through the darkness.

Three years on, I wouldn’t say things are easier with Dex. Okay, in some ways they are a disaster. Still things have changed, and we've come a long way since the hostilities of that first painful semester. Enough so that I can confidently call him a friend.

But easier? Things are never easy with William Jacob Poindexter.

And he never stops throwing surprises my way.

I stand frozen in the leafy clearing. Before me, a little campsite has been arranged with a fire, chairs, cooler-full of food, and even sleeping bags; Dex mutters that he'll escort me back if I don't want to stay. But that's not what has my attention.

What has my attention is the wooden box placed at the water's edge. 

The box looks like a mini portable cabinet, with the main double-doors carved with diverse and detailed forms that evoke the sea. At its base, a bottom tray-like drawer has been pulled out with lit candles set at the perimeter; the flames illuminate a bed of pine needles and marigold petals piled onto the tray, and on top of that bed sits a set of various dishes laid out in a spread. More of the needles and petals are scattered in a trail that leads from the spread to the water.

I'm reminded of those Butsudan that Mama collects, especially when Dex opens the doors and lights the lanterns inside.

Aided by the flickering light, I get a good look at the contents. On in the inside of one door is carved a cross and trefoil. On the other is skeletal figure dressed in finery and surrounded by varied beasts. And in the middle are photographs.

It's the photo in the middle that draws my eye. The boy in it wears a gentle smile as he leans up against a rock. My mind can't help but connect the dots. Yeah, his hair's strawberry blond instead of Dex's copper and Danny's auburn. But there is no mistaking that his eyes — with greater humor than Dex and calmer energy than Danny — are of the same bright gold hue set above lightly freckled cheeks. Though also like Danny, and unlike Dex, he has a tan and his ears aren't radar installations.

I stand in silence as the implications sink in, and Dex lights up before taking a couple puffs, coughing, and placing the cigarette on a stand by the food.

As he steps back, he voices some of my unspoken thoughts: “Chowder already knows and was here last year. With the volleyball game tonight, he and Farmer helped with supplies and made their own offering.” That explains the small bowl of Peranakan curry next to the slice of blueberry pie.

“Should I have brought something for this Día de la Muertos?”

“First off, it’s Hanal Pixan.” Before I can ask, Dex elaborates, “That’s what Ceel’s family called it when they immigrated over. The name stuck.”

“Chill." To my surprise, Dex doesn't react to my slip. "And secondly?”

His voice is small: “You being here is enough.”

Those words seize me as he hold his hand out.

Dex may not be easy…

I take that calloused hand — I will myself to not think about the warmth and electric rush that blossoms out from his gentle grasp — and allow him to guide me until we are kneeling side-by-side before the altar.

… That doesn't mean I don't love a challenge. Even if it's just as friends.

“Hey, Simon. I want you to meet someone.”

**Author's Note:**

> As noted, this story is my headcanonverse, so any Check Please story I make (or have made so far) that's not explicitly AU, takes place in the same verse. Thus, expect some connections. A jumbled web of connections.  
> I would like to thank [kleeklutch](http://kleeklutch.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing my work and making sure it didn't become a rambly mess.  
> I would also like to thank [smhloudboy](https://smhloudboy.tumblr.com/) for providing the beautiful illustrations to accompany my story.  
> And of course, many thanks to readers like you. Y'all are what keep us writers motivated.  
> Let me know what you think or if you have questions! Either here or on my tumblr at [randomnoteforfuturereference](http://randomnoteforfuturereference.tumblr.com/).


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